Portrait  by  Sargent 


THE 'COMPLETE  WORKS 


OF 


JAME§  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


IN  WHICH  THB  POEMS.  INCLUDING  A  NUMBER  HERETOFORE  UNPUBLISHED, 

ARE   ARRANGED  IN  THE   ORDER   IN   WHICH  THEY   WERE  WRITTEN, 

TOGETHER  WITH    PHOTOGRAPHS,  BIBLIOGRAPHIC   NOTES 

AND   A  LIFE   SKETCH    OF  THE  AUTHOR 


COLLECTED  AND  EDITED  BY 

EDMUND  HENRY  EITEL 


BIOGRAPHICAL  EDITION 

VOLUME  ONE 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT 

1883,  1885,  1887/1888,  1890,  1891,  1892,  1893,  1894, 

1896,  1897,  1898,  1899,  1900,  1901,  1902,  1903,  1904, 

1905,  1906,  1907,  1908,  1909,  1910,  1911,  1912,  1913. 

BY  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

COPYRIGHT  1913 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


PRESS    OF 

BRAUNWORTH  &  CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND   PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN.    N.    Y. 


V,  I 
H/HA) 


TO 

MY  FATHER  AND  MOTHER 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

For  the  hearty  and  generous  assistance  of  Mr. 
Riley's  friends  and  kinsmen  in  the  preparation  of 
this  edition,  the  publishers  wish  to  make  grateful 
acknowledgment.  To  Mrs.  Charles  Cox,  Mrs.  Benj. 
S.  Parker,  Mr.  George  C.  Hitt,  to  Mrs.  Julia  A. 
Riley  and  to  Mr.  Henry  Eitel  especial  thanks  are 
due  for  material  furnished  and  time  freely  given ;  to 
Mr.  D.  S.  Alexander  and  Mr.  Charles  Vergil  Tevis 
for  permission  to  use  excerpts  from  various  inter 
views  ;  to  Miss  Ora  Williams,  Mr.  W.  H.  Cathcart 
and  Mr.  Frank  G.  Darlington  for  information  for 
the  bibliography;  to  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  and 
The  Century  Company  for  permission  to  include 
poems  originally  published  by  them,  and  to  Mr. 
Will  D.  Howe  for  editorial  counsel. 


CONTENTS 

1870  PAGE 

A  BACKWARD  LOOK 1 

PHILIPER  FLASH          4 

THE  SAME  OLD  STORY 8 

To  A  BOY  WHISTLING 10 

1871 

AN  OLD  FRIEND 11 

WHAT  SMITH  KNEW  ABOUT  FARMING        ...  12 

1872 

A   POET'S  WOOING 18 

MAN'S  DEVOTION 20 

A  BALLAD 23 

THE  OLD  TIMES  WERE  THE  BEST        ....  27 

1873 

A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON 28 

1874 

AT  LAST          30 

FARMER  WHIPPLE — BACHELOR 32 

MY  JOLLY  FRIEND'S  SECRET 40 

THE  SPEEDING  OF  THE  KING'S  SPITE     ....  43 

JOB  WORK 49 

PRIVATE  THEATRICALS 51 

PLAIN  SERMONS 53 

"TRADIN'  JOE"      .             54 

DOT  LEEDLE  BOY        ........  59 

1875 

I  SMOKE  MY' PIPE 64 

RED  RIDING  HOOD 66 

IF  I  KNEW  WHAT  POETS  KNOW    .  67 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

AN  OLD  SWEETHEART  OF  MINE 68 

SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 73 

A  COUNTRY  PATHWAY 85 

1876 

THE  OLD  GUITAR 90 

"FRIDAY  AFTERNOON" 92 

"JOHNSON'S  BOY" 97 

HER  BEAUTIFUL  HANDS 99 

NATURAL  PERVERSITIES 101 

THE  SILENT  VICTORS 104 

SCRAPS 110 

AUGUST    .              112 

DEAD  IN  SIGHT  OF  FAME 114 

IN  THE  DARK 116 

THE  IRON  HORSE 118 

DEAD  LEAVES 121 

OVER  THE  EYES  OF  GLADNESS 123 

ONLY  A  DREAM 125 

OUR  LITTLE  GIRL 127 

THE  FUNNY  LITTLE  FELLOW 128 

1877 

SONG  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR 131 

A  LETTER  TO  A  FRIEND 133 

LINES  FOR  AN  ALBUM 134 

To  ANNIE 135 

FAME 136 

AN  EMPTY  NEST 139 

MY  FATHER'S   HALLS .       .  140 

THE  HARP  OF  THE  MINSTREL 141 

HONEY  DRIPPING  FROM  THE  COMB        ....  143 

JOHN  WALSH 144 

ORLIE  WILDE 146 

THAT  OTHER  MAUD  MULLER 154 

A  MAN  OF  MANY  PARTS 156 

THE  FROG 158 

DEAD  SELVES 160 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  DREAM  OF  LONG  AGO 163 

CRAQUEODOOM 166 

JUNE 168 

WASH  LOWRY'S  REMINISCENCE 169 

THE  ANCIENT  PRINTERMAN 173 

PRIOR  TO  Miss  BELLE'S  APPEARANCE  ....  175 

WHEN  MOTHER  COMBED  MY  HAIR  ....  178 

A  WRANGDILLION 180 

GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION 182 

"TIRED  OUT" 191 

HARLIE 192 

SAY  SOMETHING  TO  ME 193 

—  LEONAINIE 194 

A  TEST  OF  LOVE 196 

FATHER  WILLIAM 198 

WHAT  THE  WIND  SAID 200 

MORTON  207 

AN  AUTUMNAL  EXTRAVAGANZA 209 

THE  ROSE 211 

THE  MERMAN 213 

""-THE  RAINY  MORNING 215 

WE  ARE  NOT  ALWAYS  GLAD  WHEN  WE  SMILE  .  216 

A  SUMMER  SUNRISE 218 

DAS  KRIST  KINDEL 220 

1878 

AN  OLD  YEAR'S  ADDRESS 225 

A  NEW  YEAR'S  PLAINT 227 

LUTHER  BENSON ;  230 

DREAM 232 

WHEN  EVENING  SHADOWS  FALL 234 

YLLADMAR 236 

A  FANTASY          238 

A  DREAM 242 

DREAMER,  SAY 244 

BRYANT          246 

BABYHOOD       ....  247 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

LIBERTY          249 

TOM  VAN  ARDEN 259 

T.  C.  PHILIPS 263 

A  DREAM  UNFINISHED      ....                    .    264 
A  CHILD'S  HOME  LONG  AGO 267 

THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF  THE  NIGHT     .       .       .       .279 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY— A  SKETCH     ....     367 
NOTES  391 


THE  COMPLETE  WORKS 

OF 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

IN  SIX  VOLUMES 


A  BACKWARD  LOOK 

A)  I  sat  smoking,  alone,  yesterday, 
And  lazily  leaning  back  in  my  chair, 
Enjoying  myself  in  a  general  way — 
Allowing  my  thoughts  a  holiday 

From  weariness,  toil  and  care, — 
My  fancies — doubtless,  for  ventilation — 

Left  ajar  the  gates  of  my  mind, — 
And  Memory,  seeing  the  situation, 

Slipped  out  in  the  street  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne"- 

Wandering  ever  with  tireless  feet 

Through  scenes  of  silence,  and  jubilee 
Of  long-hushed  voices ;  and  faces  sweet 
Were  thronging  the  shadowy  side  of  the  street 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  see; 
Dreaming  again,  in  anticipation, 

The  same  old  dreams  of  our  boyhood's  days 
That  never  come  true,  from  the  vague  sensation 

Of  walking  asleep  in  the  world's  strange  ways. 
1 


2  A   BACKWARD   LOOK 

Away  to  the  house  where  I  was  born ! 

And  there  was  the  selfsame  clock  that  ticked 
From  the  close  of  dusk  to  the  burst  of  morn, 
When  life-warm  hands  plucked  the  golden  corn 

And  helped  when  the  apples  were  picked. 
And  the  "chany  dog"  on  the  mantel-shelf, 

With  the  gilded  collar  and  yellow  eyes, 
Looked  just  as  at  first,  when  I  hugged  myself 

Sound  asleep  with  the  dear  surprise. 

And  down  to  the  swing  in  the  locust-tree, 

Where  the  grass  was  worn  from  the  trampled 
ground, 

And  where  "Eck"  Skinner,  "Old"  Carr,  and  three 

Or  four  such  other  boys  used  to  be 

"Doin'  sky-scrapers,"  or  "whirlin'  round": 

And  again  Bob  climbed  for  the  bluebird's  nest, 
And  again  "had  shows"  in  the  buggy-shed 

Of  Guymon's  barn,  where  still,  unguessed, 
The  old  ghosts  romp  through  the  best  days  dead ! 

And  again  I  gazed  from  the  old  schoolroom 

With  a  wistful  look,  of  a  long  June  day, 
When  on  my  cheek  was  the  hectic  bloom 
Caught  of  Mischief,  as  I  presume — 

He  had  such  a  "partial"  way, 
It  seemed,  toward  me. — And  again  I  thought 

Of  a  probable  likelihood  to  be 
Kept  in  after  school — for  a  girl  was  caught 

Catching  a  note  from  me. 


A  BACKWARD  LOOK 

And  down  through  the  woods  to  the  swimming- 
hole— 

Where  the  big,  white,  hollow  old  sycamore 

grows,— 

And  we  never  cared  when  the  water  was  cold, 
And  always  "ducked"  the  boy  that  told 

On  the  fellow  that  tied  the  clothes. — 
When  life  went  so  like  a  dreamy  rhyme, 

That  it  seems^to  me  now  that  then 
The  world  was  having  a  jollier  time 

Than  it  ever  will  have  again. 


PHILIPER  FLASH 

'X/'OUNG  Philiper  Flash  was  a  promising  lad, 
i  His  intentions  were  good — but  oh,  how  sad 

For  a  person  to  think 

How  the  veriest  pink 

And  bloom  of  perfection  may  turn  out  bad. 
Old  Flash  himself  was  a  moral  man, 
And  prided  himself  on  a  moral  plan, 

Of  a  maxim  as  old 

As  the  calf  of  gold, 
Of  making  that  boy  do  what  he  was  told. 

And  such  a  good  mother  had  Philiper  Flash; 
Her  voice  was  as  soft  as  the  creamy  plash 

Of  the  milky  wave 

With  its  musical  lave 

That  gushed  through  the  holes  of  her  patent  churn- 
dash  ; — 

And  the  excellent  woman  loved  Philiper  so, 
She  could  cry  sometimes  when  he  stumped  his  toe, — 

And  she  stroked  his  hair 

With  such  motherly  care 
When  the  dear  little  angel  learned  to  swear. 

4 


PHILIPER  FLASH  5 

Old  Flash  himself  would  sometimes  say 
That  his  wife  had  "such  a  ridiculous  way, — 

She'd  humor  that  child 

Till  he'd  soon  be  sp'iled, 
And  then  there'd  be  the  devil  to  pay !" 
And  the  excellent  wife,  with  a  martyr's  look, 
Would  tell  old  Flash  himself  "he  took 

No  notice  at  all 

Of  the  bright-eyed  doll 
Unless  when  he  spanked  him  for  getting  a  fall !" 

Young  Philiper  Flash,  as  time  passed  by, 
Grew  into  "a  boy  with  a  roguish  eye" : 

He  could  smoke  a  cigar, 

And  seemed  by  far 

The  most  promising  youth. — "He's  powerful  sly," 
Old  Flash  himself  once  told  a  friend, 
"Every  copper  he  gets  he's  sure  to  spend — 

And,"  said  he,  "don't  you  know 

If  he  keeps  on  so 
What  a  crop  of  wild  oats  the  boy  will  grow !" 

But  his  dear  good  mother  knew  Philiper's  ways 
So — well,  she  managed  the  money  to  raise ; 

And  old  Flash  himself 

Was  "laid  on  the  shelf," 

(In  the  manner  of  speaking  we  have  nowadays). 
For  "gracious  knows,  her  darling  child, 
If  he  went  without  money  he'd  soon  grow  wild." 

So  Philiper  Flash 


6  PHILIPER  FLASH 

With  a  regular  dash 

"Swung  on  to  the  reins,"  and  went  "slingin'  the 
cash." 

As  old  Flash  himself,  in  his  office  one  day, 
Was  shaving  notes  in  a  barberous  way, 

At  the  hour  of  four 

Death  entered  the  door 
And  shaved  the  note  on  his  life,  they  say. 
And  he  had  for  his  grave  a  magnificent  tomb, 
Though  the  venturous  ringer  that  pointed  ''Gone 
Home," 

Looked  white  and  cold 

From  being  so  bold, 
As  it  feared  that  a  popular  lie  was  told. 

Young  Philiper  Flash  was  a  man  of  style 
When  he  first  began  unpacking  the  pile 

Of  the  dollars  and  dimes 

Whose  jingling  chimes 

Had  chinked  to  the  tune  of  his  father's  smile ; 
And  he  strewed  his  wealth  with  such  lavish  hand, 
His  rakish  ways  were  the  talk  of  the  land, 

And  gossipers  wise 

Sat  winking  their  eyes, 
(A  certain  foreboding  of  fresh  surprise). 

A  "fast  young  man"  was  Philiper  Flash, 
And  wore  "loud  clothes"  and  a  weak  mustache, 
And  "done  the  Park," 


PHILIPER  FLASH  7 

For  an  "afternoon  lark," 
With  a  very  fast  horse  of  "remarkable  dash." 
And  Philiper  handled  a  billiard-cue 
About  as  well  as  the  best  he  knew, 

And  used  to  say 

"He  could  make  it  pay 
By  playing  two  or  three  games  a  day." 

And  Philiper  Flash  was  his  mother's  joy, 
He  seemed  to  her  the  magic  alloy 

That  made  her  glad, 

When  her  heart  was  sad, 
With  the  thought  that  "she  lived  for  her  darling 

boy." 

His  dear  good  mother  wasn't  aware 
How  her  darling  boy  relished  a  "tare." — 

She  said  "one  night 

He  gave  her  a  fright 
By  coming  home  late  and  acting  tight." 

Young  Philiper  Flash,  on  a  winterish  day, 
Was  published  a  bankrupt,  so  they  say — 

And  as  far  as  I  know 

I  suppose  it  was  so, 
For  matters  went  on  in  a  singular  way ; 
His  excellent  mother,  I  think  I  was  told, 
Died  from  exposure  and  want  and  cold ; 

And  Philiper  Flash, 

With  a  horrible  slash, 
Whacked  his  jugular  open  and  went  to  smash. 


THE  SAME  OLD  STORY 


THE  same  old  story  told  again — 
The  maiden  droops  her  head, 
The  ripening  glow  of  her  crimson  cheek 

Is  answering  in  her  stead. 
The  pleading  tone  of  a  trembling  voice 

Is  telling  her  the  way 
He  loved  her  when  his  heart  was  young 

In  Youth's  sunshiny  day: 
The  trembling  tongue,  the  longing  tone, 

Imploringly  ask  why 
They  can  not  be  as  happy  now 

As  in  the  days  gone  by. 
And  two  more  hearts,  tumultuous 

With  overflowing  joy, 
Are  dancing  to  the  music 

Which  that  dear,  provoking  boy 
Is  twanging  on  his  bowstring, 

As,  fluttering  his  wings, 
He  sends  his  love-charged  arrows 

While  merrily  he  sings: 
8 


THE  SAME   OLD   STORY 

"Ho !  ho !  my  dainty  maiden, 

It  surely  can  not  be 
You  are  thinking  you  are  master 

Of  your  heart,  when  it  is  me." 
And  another  gleaming  arrow 

Does  the  little  god's  behest, 
And  the  dainty  little  maiden 

Falls  upon  her  lover's  breast. 
"The  same  old  story  told  again," 

And  listened  o'er  and  o'er, 
Will  still  be  new,  and  pleasing,  too, 

Till  "Time  shall  be  no  more." 


TO  A  BOY  WHISTLING 


THE  smiling  face  of  a  happy  boy 
With  its  enchanted  key 
Is  now  unlocking  in  memory 
My  store  of  heartiest  joy. 

And  my  lost  life  again  to-day, 

In  pleasant  colors  all  aglow, 

From  rainbow  tints,  to  pure  white  snow, 
Is  a  panorama  sliding  away. 

The  whistled  air  of  a  simple  tune 

Eddies  and  whirls  my  thoughts  around, 
As  fairy  balloons  of  thistle-down 

Sail  through  the  air  of  June. 

O  happy  boy  with  untaught  grace ! 
What  is  there  in  the  world  to  give 
That  can  buy  one  hour  of  the  life  you  live 

Or  the  trivial  cause  of  your  smiling  face ! 


10 


AN  OLD  FRIEND 

HEY,  Old  Midsummer !  are  you  here  again, 
With  all  your  harvest-store  of  olden  joys, — 
Vast  overhanging  meadow-lands  of  rain, 
And  drowsy  dawns,  and  noons  when  golden  grain 

Nods  in  the  sun,  and  lazy  truant  boys 
Drift  ever  listlessly  adown  the  day, 
Too  full  of  joy  to  rest,  and  dreams  to  play. 

The  same  old  Summer,  with  the  same  old  smile 
Beaming  upon  us  in  the  same  old  way 

We  knew  in  childhood !     Though  a  weary  while 

Since  that  far  time,  yet  memories  reconcile 
The  heart  with  odorous  breaths  of  clover  hay ; 

And  again  I  hear  the  doves,  and  the  sun  streams 
through 

The  old  barn  door  just  as  it  used  to  do. 

And  so  it  seems  like  welcoming  a  friend — 

An  old,  old  friend,  upon  his  coming  home 
From  some  far  country — coming  home  to  spend 
Long,  loitering  days  with  me:     And  I  extend 
My  hand  in  rapturous  glee : — And  so  you've 

come ! — 

Ho,  I'm  so  glad !    Come  in  and  take  a  chair : 
Well,  this  is  just  like  old  times,  I  declare! 

n 


WHAT   SMITH   KNEW   ABOUT   FARMING 


wasn't  two  purtier  farms  in  the  state 
A  Than  the  couple  of  which  I'm  about  to  relate  ;  — 
Jinin'  each  other  —  belongin'  to  Brown, 
And  jest  at  the  edge  of  a  flourishin'  town. 
Brown  was  a  man,  as  I  understand, 
That  allus  had  handled  a  good  'eal  o'  land, 
And  was  sharp  as  a  tack  in  drivin'  a  trade  — 
For  that's  the  way  most  of  his  money  was  made. 
And  all  the  grounds  and  the  orchards  about 
His  two  pet  farms  was  all  tricked  out 
With  poppies  and  posies 
And  sweet-smellin'  rosies; 
And  hundreds  o'  kinds 
Of  all  sorts  o'  vines, 
To  tickle  the  most  horticultural  minds; 
And  little  dwarf  trees  not  as  thick  as  your  wrist 
With  ripe  apples  on  'em  as  big  as  your  fist  : 
And  peaches,  —  Siberian  crabs  and  pears, 
And  quinces  —  Well!  any  fruit  any  tree  bears; 
And  the  purtiest  stream  —  jest  a-swimmin'  with  fish, 
And  —  jest  of  most  everything  heart  could  wish! 
The  purtiest  orch'rds  —  I  wish  you  could  see 
How  purty  they  was,  for  I  know  it  'ud  be 
A  regular  treat  !—  but  I'll  go  ahead  with 
My  story  !    A  man  by  the  name  o'  Smith— 

12 


WHAT  SMITH  KNEW  ABOUT  FARMING     13 

(A  bad  name  to  rhyme, 

But  I  reckon  that  I'm 

Not  goin'  back  on  a  Smith !  nary  time !) 

'At  hadn't  a  soul  of  kin  nor  kith, 

And  more  money  than  he  knowed  what  to  do  with, — 

So  he  comes  a-ridin'  along  one  day, 

And  he  says  to  Brown,  in  his  offhand  way — 

Who  was  trainin*  some  newfangled  vines  round  a 

bay- 
Winder — "Howdy-do — look-a-here — say: 
What'll  you  take  for  this  property  here? — 
I'm  talkin'  o'  leavin'  the  city  this  year, 
And  I  want  to  be 
Where  the  air  is  free, 

And  I'll  buy  this  place,  if  it  ain't  too  dear!" — 
Well — they  grumbled  and  jawed  aroun' — 
"I  don't  like  to  part  with  the  place,"  says  Brown; 
"Well,"  says  Smith,  a-jerkin'  his  head, 
"That  house  yonder — bricks  painted  red — 
Jest  like  this'n — a  purtier  view — 
Who  is  it  owns  iff"  "That's  mine  too," 
Says  Brown,  as  he  winked  at  a  hole  in  his  shoe, 
"But  I'll  tell  you  right  here  jest  what  I  kin  do:— 
If  you'll  pay  the  figgers  I'll  sell  it  to  you.'* 
Smith  went  over  and  looked  at  the  place — 
Badgered  with  Brown,  and  argied  the  case — 
Thought  that  Brown's  figgers  was  rather  too  tall, 
But,  findin'  that  Brown  wasn't  goin'  to  fall, 
In  final  agreed, 
So  they  drawed  up  the  deed 


14     WHAT  SMITH  KNEW  ABOUT  FARMING 

For  the  farm  and  the  fixtures — the  live  stock  an'  all. 

And  so  Smith  moved  from  the  city  as  soon 

As  he  possibly  could — But  "the  man  in  the  moon" 

Knowed  more'n  Smith  o'  farmin'  pursuits, 

And  jest  to  convince  you,  and  have  no  disputes, 

How  little  he  knowed, 

I'll  tell  you  his  "mode," 

As  he  called  it,  o'  raisin'  "the  best  that  growed," 

In  the  way  o'  potatoes — 

Cucumbers — tomatoes, 

And  squashes  as  lengthy  as  young  alligators. 

Twas  allus  a  curious  thing  to  me 

How  big  a  fool  a  feller  kin  be 

When  he  gits  on  a  farm  after  leavin'  a  town ! — 

Expectin'  to  raise  himself  up  to  renown, 

And  reap  for  himself  agricultural  fame, 

By  growin'  of  squashes — without  any  shame — 

As  useless  and  long  as  a  technical  name. 

To  make  the  soil  pure, 

And  certainly  sure, 

He  plastered  the  ground  with  patent  manure. 

He  had  cultivators,  and  double-hoss  plows, 

And  patent  machines  for  milkin'  his  cows ; 

And  patent  hay-forks — patent  measures  and 

weights, 

And  new  patent  back-action  hinges  for  gates, 
And  barn  locks  and  latches,  and  such  little  dribs, 
And  patents  to  keep  the  rats  out  o'  the  cribs- 
Reapers  and  mowers, 
And  patent  grain  sowers ; 


WHAT  SMITH  KNEW  ABOUT  FARMING     li 

And  drillers 

And  tillers 

And  cucumber  hillers, 

And  harriers ; — and  had  patent  rollers  and  scrapers, 

And  took  about  ten  agricultural  papers. 

So  you  can  imagine  how  matters  turned  out : 

But  Brown  didn't  have  not  a  shadder  o'  doubt 

That  Smith  didn't  know  what  he  was  about 

When  he  said  that  "the  old  way  to  farm  was  played 

out." 

But  Smith  worked  ahead, 
And  when  any  one  said 

That  the  old  way  o'  workin'  was  better  instead 
O'  his  "modern  idees,"  he  allus  turned  red, 
And  wanted  to  know 
What  made  people  so 

Infernally  anxious  to  hear  theirselves  crow  ? 
And  guessed  that  he'd  manage  to  hoe  his  own  row. 
Brown  he  come  onc't  and  leant  over  the  fence, 
And  told  Smith  that  he  couldn't  see  any  sense 
In  goin'  to  such  a  tremendous  expense 
For  the  sake  o'  such  no-account  experiments : — 
"That'll  never  make  corn ! 
As  shore's  you're  born 
It'll  come  out  the  leetlest  end  of  the  horn  1" 
Says  Brown,  as  he  pulled  off  a  big  roastin'-ear 
From  a  stalk  of  his  own 
That  had  tribble  outgrown 
Smith's  poor  yaller  shoots,  and  says  he,  "Looky 

here! 


16     WHAT  SMITH'  KNEW  ABOUT  FARMING 

This  corn  was  raised  in  the  old-fashioned  way, 

And  I  rather  imagine  that  this  corn'll  pay 

Expenses  f er  raisin'  it ! — What  do  you  say  ?" 

Brown  got  him  then  to  look  over  his  crop. — 

His  luck  that  season  had  been  tip-top ! 

And  you  may  surmise 

Smith  opened  his  eyes 

And  let  out  a  look  o'  the  wildest  surprise 

When  Brown  showed  him  punkins  as  big  as  the  lies 

He  was  stuffin'  him  with — about  offers  he's  had 

For  his  farm:     "I  don't  want  to  sell  very  bad," 

He  says,  but  says  he, 

"Mr.  Smith,  you  kin  see 

For  yourself  how  matters  is  standin'  with  me, 

I  understand  farmin'  and  I'd  better  stay, 

You  know,  on  my  farm ; — I'm  a-makin*  it  pay — 

I  oughtn't  to  grumble! — I  reckon  I'll  clear 

Away  over  four  thousand  dollars  this  year." 

And  that  was  the  reason,  he  made  it  appear, 

Why  he  didn't  care  about  sellin'  his  farm, 

And  hinted  at  his  havin'  done  himself  harm 

In  sellin'  the  other,  and  wanted  to  know 

If  Smith  wouldn't  sell  back  ag'in  to  him. — So 

Smith  took  the  bait,  and  says  he,  "Mr.  Brown, 

I  wouldn't  sell  out  but  we  might  swap  aroun' — 

How'll  you  trade  your  place  for  mine?" 

(Purty  sharp  way  o'  comin'  the  shine 

Over  Smith!    Wasn't  it?)     Well,  sir,  this  Brown 

Played  out  his  hand  and  brought  Smithy  down — 

Traded  with  him  an',  workin'  it  cute, 


WHAT  SMITH*  KNEW  ABOUT  FARMING     17 

Raked  in  two  thousand  dollars  to  boot 
As  slick  as  a  whistle,  an'  that  wasn't  all, — 
He  managed  to  trade  back  again  the  next  fall, — 
And  the  next — and  the  next — as  long  as  Smith 

stayed 

He  reaped  with  his  harvests  an  annual  trade. — 
Why,  I  reckon  that  Brown  must  V  easily  made — 
On  an  average — nearly  two  thousand  a  year — 
Together  he  made  over  seven  thousand — clear. — 
Till  Mr.  Smith  found  he  was  losin'  his  health 
In  as  big  a  proportion,  almost,  as  his  wealth ; 
So  at  last  he  concluded  to  move  back  to  town, 
And  sold  back  his  farm  to  this  same  Mr.  Brown 
At  very  low  figgers,  by  gittin'  it  down. 
Further'n  this  I  have  nothin'  to  say 
Than  merely  advisin'  the  Smiths  fer  to  stay 
In  their  grocery  stores  in  flourishin'  towns 
And  leave  agriculture  alone — and  the  Browns. 


A  POET'S  WOOING 


/  woo'd  a  woman  once, 
But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern  wind. 

— TENNYSON. 

"  \  X  7HAT  may  I  do  to  make  you  glad, 
VV  To  make  you  glad  and  free, 
Till  your  light  smiles  glance 
And  your  bright  eyes  dance 
Like  sunbeams  on  the  sea  ? 

Read  some  rhyme  that  is  blithe  and  gay 
Of  a  bright  May  morn  and  a  marriage  day  ?" 
And  she  sighed  in  a  listless  way  she  had, — 
"Do  not  read— it  will  make  me  sad !" 

"What  shall  I  do  to  make  you  glad- 
To  make  you  glad  and  gay, 
Till  your  eyes  gleam  bright 
As  the  stars  at  night 
When  as  light  as  the  light  of  day? — 
Sing  some  song  as  I  twang  the  strings 
Of  my  sweet  guitar  through  its  wanderings?" 
And  she  sighed  in  the  weary  way  she  had — 
"Do  not  sing— it  will  make  me  sad !" 
18 


A  POETS   WOOING  19 

"What  can  I  do  to  make  you  glad — 
As  glad  as  glad  can  be, 
Till  your  clear  eyes  seem 
Like  the  rays  that  gleam 
And  glint  through  a  dew-decked  tree? — 
Will  it  please  you,  dear,  that  I  now  begin 
A  grand  old  air  on  my  violin  ?" 
And  she  spoke  again  in  the  following  way, — 

"Yes,  oh  yes,  it  would  please  me,  sir ; 
I  would  be  so  glad  you'd  play 

Some  grand  old  march — in  character, — 
And  then  as  you  march  away 
I  will  no  longer  thus  be  sad, 
But  oh,  so  glad — so  glad — so  glad !" 


MAN'S  DEVOTION 

A  LOVER  said,  "O  Maiden,  love  me  well, 
For  I  must  go  away : 
And  should  another  ever  come  to  tell 
Of  love— What  will  you  say?" 

And  she  let  fall  a  royal  robe  of  hair 

That  folded  on  his  arm 
And  made  a  golden  pillow  for  her  there ; 

Her  face — as  bright  a  charm 

As  ever  setting  held  in  kingly  crown — 

Made  answer  with  a  look, 
And  reading  it,  the  lover  bended  down, 

And,  trusting,  "kissed  the  book." 

He  took  a  fond  farewell  and  went  away. 

And  slow  the  time  went  by — 
So  weary — dreary  was  it,  day  by  day 

To  love,  and  wait,  and  sigh. 
20 


MAN'S  DEVOTION  21 

She  kissed  his  pictured  face  sometimes,  and 
said: 

"Oh !  Lips,  so  cold  and  dumb, 
I  would  that  you  would  tell  me,  if  not  dead, 

Why,  why  do  you  not  come?" 

The  picture,  smiling,  stared  her  in  the  face 

Unmoved — e'en  with  the  touch 
Of  tear-drops — hers-~-be jeweling  the  case — 

'Twas  plain — she  loved  him  much. 

And,  thus  she  grew  to  think  of  him  as  gay 

And  joyous  all  the  while, 
And  she  was  sorrowing — "Ah,  welladay!" 

But  pictures  always  smile ! 

And  years — dull  years — in  dull  monotony 

As  ever  went  and  came, 
Still  weaving  changes  on  unceasingly, 

And  changing,  changed  her  name. 

Was  she  untrue? — She  oftentimes  was  glad 

And  happy  as  a  wife ; 
But  one  remembrance  oftentimes  made  sad 

Her  matrimonial  life. — 

Though  its  few  years  were  hardly  noted,  when 

Again  her  path  was  strown 
With  thorns — the  roses  swept  away  again, 

And  she  again  alone! 


22  MAN'S  DEVOTION 

And  then— alas!  ah  then!— her  lover  came: 

"I  come  to  claim  you  now — 
My  Darling,  for  I  know  you  are  the  same, 

And  I  have  kept  my  vow 

Through  these  long,  long,  long  years,  and  now 
no  more 

Shall  we  asundered  be !" 
She  staggered  back  and,  sinking  to  the  floor, 

Cried  in  her  agony : 


"I  have  been  false !"  she  moaned,  "I  am  not 
true — 

I  am  not  worthy  now, 
Nor  ever  can  I  be  a  wife  to  you — 

For  I  have  broke  my  vow !" 

And  as  she  kneeled  there,  sobbing  at  his  feet, 

He  calmly  spoke — no  sign 
Betrayed  his  inward  agony — "I  count  you  meet 

To  be  a  wife  of  mine !" 

And  raised  her  up  forgiven,  though  untrue ; 

As  fond  he  gazed  on  her, 
Sfie  sighed,— "So  happy!"    And  she  never 
knew 

He  was  a  widower. 


A  BALLAD 

WITH  A  SERIOUS  CONCLUSION 


about  me,  little  children— 
Come  and  cluster  'round  my  knee 
While  I  tell  a  little  story 
That  happened  once  with  me. 

My  father  he  had  gone  away 

A-sailing  on  the  foam, 
Leaving  me  —  the  merest  infant  — 

And  my  mother  dear  at  home  ; 

For  my  father  was  a  sailor, 
And  he  sailed  the  ocean  o'er 

For  full  five  years  ere  yet  again 
He  reached  his  native  shore. 

And  I  had  grown  up  rugged 

And  healthy  day  by  day, 
Though  I  was  but  a  puny  babe 

When  father  went  away. 

Poor  mother  she  would  kiss  me 

And  look  at  me  and  sigh 
So  strangely,  oft  I  wondered 

And  would  ask  the  reason  why. 
23 


24  A   BALLAD 

And  she  would  answer  sadly, 
Between  her  sobs  and  tears, — 

"You  look  so  like  your  father, 
Far  away  so  many  years!" 

And  then  she  would  caress  me 
And  brush  my  hair  away, 

And  tell  me  not  to  question, 
But  to  run  about  my  play. 

Thus  I  went  playing  thoughtfully — - 
For  that  my  mother  said, — 

"You  look  so  like  your  father!" 
Kept  ringing  in  my  head. 

So,  ranging  once  the  golden  sands 
That  looked  out  on  the  sea, 

I  called  aloud,  "My  father  dear, 
Come  back  to  ma  and  me !" 

Then  I  saw  a  glancing  shadow 
On  the  sand,  and  heard  the  shriek 

Of  a  sea-gull  flying  seaward, 
And  I  heard  a  gruff  voice  speak : — 

"Ay,  ay,  my  little  shipmate, 
I  thought  I  heard  you  hail ; 

Were  you  trumpeting  that  sea-gull, 
Or  do  you  see  a  sail  ?" 


A   BALLAD  25 

And  as  rough  and  gruff  a  sailor 

As  ever  sailed  the  sea 
Was  standing  near  grotesquely 

And  leering  dreadfully. 

I  replied,  though  I  was  frightened, — 

"It  was  my  father  dear 
I  was  calling  for  across  the  sea — 

I  think  he  didn't  hear." 

And  then  the  sailor  leered  again 

In  such  a  frightful  way, 
And  made  so  many  faces 

I  was  little  loath  to  stay : 

But  he  started  fiercely  toward  me — 

Then  made  a  sudden  halt 
And  roared,  "I  think  he  heard  you !" 

And  turned  a  somersault. 

Then  a  wild  fear  overcame  me, 
And  I  flew  off  like  the  wind, 

Shrieking  "Mother!" — and  the  sailor 
Just  a  little  way  behind! 

And  then  my  mother  heard  me, 
And  I  saw  her  shade  her  eyes, 

Looking  toward  me  from  the  doorway, 
Transfixed  with  pale  surprise 


26  A   BALLAD 

For  a  moment — then  her  features 

Glowed  with  all  their  wonted  charms 

As  the  sailor  overtook  me, 
And  I  fainted  in  her  arms. 

When  I  awoke  to  reason 

I  shuddered  with  affright 
Till  I  felt  my  mother's  presence 

With  a  thrill  of  wild  delight- 
Till,  amid  a  shower  of  kisses 

Falling  glad  as  summer  rain, 
A  muffled  thunder  rumbled, — 

"Is  he  coming  'round  again?" 

Then  I  shrieked  and  clung  unto  her, 
While  her  features  flushed  and  burned 

As  she  told  me  it  was  father 
From  a  foreign  land  returned. 


I  said — when  I  was  calm  again, 
And  thoughtfully  once  more 

Had  dwelt  upon  my  mother's  words 
Of  just  the  day  before, — 

"I  don't  look  like  my  father, 
As  you  told  me  yesterday — 

I  know  I  don't — or  father 
Would  have  run  the  other  way." 


THE  OLD  TIMES  WERE  THE  BEST 

FRIENDS,  my  heart  is  half  aweary 
Of  its  happiness  to-night : 
Though  your  songs  are  gay  and  cheery, 

And  your  spirits  feather-light, 
There's  a  ghostly  music  haunting 

Still  the  heart  of  every  guest 
And  a  voiceless  chorus  -chanting 
That  the  Old  Times  were  the  best. 

CHORUS 

All  about  is  bright  and  pleasant 
With  the  sound  of  song  and  jest, 

Yet  a  feeling's  ever  present 
That  the  Old  Times  were  the  best. 


27 


A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON 


A  LANGUID  atmosphere,  a  lazy  breeze, 
I\.     With  labored  respiration,  moves  the  wheat 
From  distant  reaches,  till  the  golden  seas 
Break  in  crisp  whispers  at  my  feet. 

My  book,  neglected  of  an  idle  mind, 

Hides  for  a  moment  from  the  eyes  of  men; 

Or,  lightly  opened  by  a  critic  wind, 
Affrightedly  reviews  itself  again. 

Off  through  the  haze  that  dances  in  the  shine 
The  warm  sun  showers  in  the  open  glade, 

The  forest  lies,  a  silhouette  design 

Dimmed  through  and  through  with  shade 

A  dreamy  day;  and  tranquilly  I  lie 

At  anchor  from  all  storms  of  mental  strain ; 

With  absent  vision,  gazing  at  the  sky, 
"Like  one  that  hears  it  rain." 
28 


A   SUMMER   AFTERNOON  29 

The  Katydid,  so  boisterous  last  night, 
Clinging,  inverted,  in  uneasy  poise, 

Beneath  a  wheat-blade,  has  forgotten  quite 
If  "Katy  did  or  didn't"  make  a  noise. 


The  twitter,  sometimes,  of  a  wayward  bird 
That  checks  the  song  abruptly  at  the  sound, 

And  mildly,  chiding  echoes  that  have  stirred, 
Sink  into  silence,  all  the  more  profound. 

And  drowsily  I  hear  the  plaintive  strain 
Of  some  poor  dove     .     .     .     Why,  I  can 

scarcely  keep 
My  heavy  eyelids — there  it  is  again — 

"Coo-coo !"— I   mustn't— "Coo-coo !"— f all 
asleep ! 


AT  LAST 


A  DARK,  tempestuous  night ;  the  stars  shut  in 
With  shrouds  of  fog;  an  inky,  jet-black  blot 
The  firmament ;  and  where  the  moon  has  been 
An  hour  agone  seems  like  the  darkest  spot. 
The  weird  wind — furious  at  its  demon  game — 
Rattles  one's  fancy  like  a  window-frame. 

A  care-worn  face  peers  out  into  the  dark, 

And  childish  faces — frightened  at  the  gloom — 

Grow  awed  and  vacant  as  they  turn  to  mark 
The  father's  as  he  passes  through  the  room : 

The  gate  latch  clatters,  and  wee  baby  Bess 

Whispers,  'The  doctor's  tummin'  now,  I  dess!" 

The  father  turns ;  a  sharp,  swift  flash  of  pain 
Flits  o'er  his  face :  "Amanda,  child !  I  said 

A  moment  since — I  see  I  must  a  gain — 
Go  take  your  little  sisters  off  to  bed ! 

There,  Erne,  Rose,  and  Clara  mustn't  cry!" 

"I  tan't  he'p  it— I'm  fyaid  'at  mama'll  die  1" 
30 


Captain   Reuben  A.  Riley — the  poet's   father 


AT  LAST  31 

What  are  his  feelings,  when  this  man  alone 
Sits  in  the  silence,  glaring  in  the  grate 

That  sobs  and  sighs  on  in  an  undertone 
As  stoical — immovable  as  Fate, 

While  muffled  voices  from  the  sick  one's  room 

Come  in  like  heralds  of  a  dreaded  doom? 

The  door-latch  jingles :  in  the  doorway  stands 
The  doctor,  while  the  draft  puffs  in  a  breath — 

The  dead  coals  leap  to  life,  and  clap  their  hands, 
The  flames  flash  up.    A  face  as  pale  as  death 

Turns  slowly — teeth  tight  clenched,  and  with  a  look 

The  doctor,  through  his  specs,  reads  like  a  book. 

"Come,   brace   up,    Major!" — "Let   me   know    the 

worst !" 
"W'y  you're  the  biggest  fool  I  ever  saw — 

Here,  Major — take  a  little  brandy  first- 
There  !    She's  a  boy — I  mean  he  is — hurrah !" 

"Wake  up  the  other  girls — and  shout  for  joy — 

Eureka  is  his  name — I've  found  A  BOY !" 


FARMER  WHIPPLE— BACHELOR 

IT'S  a  mystery  to  see  me — a  man  o'  fifty-four, 
Who's  lived  a  cross  old  bachelor  f  er  thirty  year' 

and  more — 
A-lookin'  glad  and  smilin' !    And  they's  none  o'  you 

can  say 

That  you  can  guess  the  reason  why  I  feel  so  good 
to-day ! 

I  must  tell  you  all  about  it !    But  I'll  have  to  deviate 
A  little  in  beginnin',  so's  to  set  the  matter  straight 
As  to  how  it  comes  to  happen  that  I  never  took  a 

wife — 

Kindo'  "crawfish"  from  the  Present  to  the  Spring 
time  of  my  life ! 

I  was  brought  up  in  the  country:    Of  a  family  of 

five — 
Three  brothers  and  a  sister — I'm  the  only  one 

alive, — 
Per  they  all  died  little  babies;  and  'twas  one  o' 

Mother's  ways, 
You  know,  to  want  a  daughter;  so  she  took  a  girl 

to  raise. 

32 


FARMER    WHIPPLE-BACHELOR  33 

The  sweetest  little  thing  she  was,  with  rosy  cheeks, 

and  fat — 
We  was  little  chunks  o'  shavers  then  about  as  high 

as  that ! 
But  someway  we  sort  o'  suited-like !  and  Mother 

she'd  declare 
She  never  laid  her  eyes  on  a  more  lovin'  pair 

Than  we  was !    So  we  growed  up  side  by  side  fer 

thirteen  year', 
And  every  hour  of  it  she  growed  to  me  more 

dear ! — 

Wy,  even  Father's  dyin',  as  he  did,  I  do  believe 
Warn't  more  affectin'  to  me  than  it  was  to  see  her 

grieve ! 

I  was  then  a  lad  o'  twenty ;  and  I  felt  a  flash  o' 

pride 

In  thinkin'  all  depended  on  me  now  to  pervide 
Fer  Mother  and  fer  Mary;  and  I  went  about  the 

place 
With  sleeves  rolled  up — and  workin',  with  a  mighty 

smilin'  face. — 

Fer  somepin'  else  was  workin' !  but  not  a  word  I  said 
Of  a  certain  sort  o'  notion  that  was  runnin'  through 

my  head, — 
<fSome  day  I'd  maybe  marry,  and  a  brother's  love 

was  one 
Thing — a  lover's  was  another !"  was  the  way  the 

notion  run! 


34  FARMER    W HIPP LE— BACHELOR 

I  remember  onc't  in  harvest,  when  the  "cradle-in' " 

was  done, 
(When  the  harvest  of  my  summers  mounted  up  to 

twenty-one), 
I  was  ridin'  home  with  Mary  at  the  closin'  o'  the 

day — 
A-chawin'  straws  and  thinking  in  a  lover's  lazy 

way! 

And  Mary's  cheeks  was  burnin'  like  the  sunset 

down  the  lane : 
I  noticed  she  was  thinkin',  too,  and  ast  her  to 

explain. 
Well — when  she  turned  and  kissed  me,  with  her 

arms  around  me — law! 
I'd  a  bigger  load  o'  Heaven  than  I  had  a  load  o' 

straw ! 

I  don't  p'tend  to  learnin',  but  I'll  tell  you  what's  a 

fac', 
They's  a  mighty  truthful  sayin'  somers  in  a* 

almanac — 
Er  somers — 'bout  "puore  happiness" — perhaps 

some  folks'll  laugh 
At  the  idy — "only  lastin'  jest  two  seconds  and  a 

half."— 

But  it's  jest  as  true  as  preachin'! — fer  that  was  a 

sister's  kiss, 

And  a  sister's  lovin'  confidence  a-tellin'  to  me 

this : — 


FARMER   WHIFFLE— BACHELOR  35 

"She  was  happy,  bein'  promised  to  the  son  o' 

Partner  Brown." — 
And  my  feelin's  struck  a  pardnership  with  sunset 

and  went  down! 

I  don't  know  how  I  acted,  and  I  don't  know  what 

I  said, — 
Per  my  heart  seemed  jest  a-turnin'  to  an  ice-cold 

lump  o'  lead; 
And  the  hosses  kind  o'  glimmered  before  me  in  the 

road, 
And  the  lines  fell  from  my  fingers — And  that  was 

all  I  knowed — 

Fer — well,  I  don't  know  how  long — They's  a  dim 

rememberence 
Of  a  sound  o'  snortin'  horses,  and  a  stake-and- 

ridered  fence 
A-whizzin'  past,  and  wheat-sheaves  a-dancin'  in  the 

air, 
And  Mary  screamin'  "Murder!"  and  a-runnin'  up 

to  where 

7  was  layin'  by  the  roadside,  and  the  wagon  upside 

down 
A-leanin'  on  the  gate-post,  with  the  wheels 

a-whirlin'  roun'! 
And  I  tried  to  raise  and  meet  her,  but  I  couldn't, 

with  a  vague 
Sort  o'  notion  comin'  to  me  that  I  had  a  broken  leg. 


36  FARMER   H' HIPPIE-BACHELOR 

Well,  the  women  nussed  me  through  it ;  but  many  a 

time  I'd  sigh 

\  'd  keep  a-gittin'  better  instid  o'  goin'  to  die, 
And  wonder  what  was  left  me  worth  livin'  fer 

below, 

When  the  girl  I  loved  was  married  to  another, 
don't  you  know! 

And  my  thoughts  was  as  rebellious  as  the  folks 

was  good  and  kind 
When  Brown  and  Mary  married — Railly  must  V 

been  my  mind 
Was  kind  o'  out  o'  kilter ! — fer  I  hated  Brown,  you 

see, 
Worse'n  pizen — and  the  feller  whittled  crutches  out 

fer  me — 

And  done  a  thousand  little  ac's  o'  kindness  and 
respec' — 

And  me  a-wishin'  all  the  time  that  I  could  break  his 
neck! 

My  relief  was  like  a  mourner's  when  the  funeral  is 
done 

When  they  moved  to  Illinois  in  the  Fall  o'  Forty- 
one, 

Then  I  went  to  work  in  airnest — I  had  nothin'  much 

in  view 
But  to  drown d  out  rickollections — and  it  kep'  me 

busy,  tool 


FARMER    IV HIPPLE— BACHELOR  37 

But  I  slowly  thrived  and  prospered,  tel  Mother  used 

to  say 
She  expected  yit  to  see  me  a  wealthy  man  some  day. 

Then  I'd  think  how  little  money  was,  compared  to 

happiness — 
And  who'd  be  left  to  use  it  when  I  died  I  couldn't 

guess! 
But  I've  still  kep*  speculatin'  and  a-gainin'  year  by 

year, 
Tel  I'm  payin'  half  the  taxes  in  the  county,  mighty 

near! 

Well ! — A  year  ago  er  better,  a  letter  comes  to  hand 
Astin'  how  I'd  like  to  dicker  fer  some  Illinois  land — 
'The  feller  that  had  owned  it,"  it  went  ahead  to 

state, 
"Had   jest   deceased,   insolvent,   leavin'   chance   to 

speculate," — 

And  then  it  closed  by  savin'  that  I'd  "better  come 

and  see/' — 
I'd  never  been  West,  anyhow — a'most  too  wild  fer 

I'd  allus  had  a  notion ;  but  a  lawyer  here  in  town 
Said  I'd  find  myself  mistakend  when  I  come  to  look 
around. 

So  I  bids  good-by  to  Mother,  and  I  jumps  aboard 

the  train, 
A-thinkin'  what  I'd  bring  her  when  I  come  back 

home  again — 


38  FARMER   WHIPPLE— BACHELOR 

And  ef  she'd  had  an  idy  what  the  present  was  to  be, 
I  think  it's  more'n  likely  she'd  'a'  went  along  with 
me! 

Cars  is  awful  tejus  ridin',  fer  all  they  go  so  fast ! 
But  finally  they  called  out  my  stoppin'-place  at  last : 
And  that  night,  at  the  tavern,  I  dreamp'  I  was  a 

train 
O'  cars,  and  skeered  at  somepin',  runnin'  down  a 

country  lane! 

Well,  in  the  morning  airly — after  huntin'  up  the 

man — 
The  lawyer  who  was  wantin'  to  swap  the  piece  o' 

land — 

We  started  fer  the  country ;  and  I  ast  the  history 
Of  the  farm — its  former  owner — and  so  forth, 

etcetery ! 

And — well — it  was  interim' — I  su'prised  him,  I 
suppose, 

By  the  loud  and  frequent  manner  in  which  I  blowed 
my  nose ! — 

But  his  su'prise  was  greater,  and  it  made  him  won 
der  more, 

When  I  kissed  and  hugged  the  widder  when  she 
met  us  at  the  door ! — 


FARMER   WHIPPLE— BACHELOR  39 

It  was  Mary:  .  .  .  They's  a  feelin'  a-hidin'  down  in 

here — 
Of  course  I  can't  explain  it,  ner  ever  make  it 

clear. — 
It  was  with  us  in  that  meeting  I  don't  want  you  to 

f  ergit ! 
And  it  makes  me  kind  o'  nervous  when  I  think  about 

it  yit ! 

I  bought  that  farm,  and  deeded  it,  afore  I  left  the 

town, 
With  "title  clear  to  mansions  in  the  skies,"  to  Mary 

Brown ! 
And  fu'thermore,  I  took  her  and  the  childern — fer 

you  see, 
They'd  never  seed  their  Grandma — and  I  fetched 

'em  home  with  me. 

So  now  you've  got  an  idy  why  a  man  o'  fifty-four, 
Who's  lived  a  cross  old  bachelor  fer  thirty  year'  and 

more, 
Is  a-lookin*  glad  and  smilin'! — And  I've  jest  come 

into  town 
To  git  a  pair  o'  license  fer  to  marry  Mary  Brown. 


MY  JOLLY  FRIEND'S  SECRET 

AH,  friend  of  mine,  how  goes  it 
JLJL  Since  you've  taken  you  a  mate  ? — 
Your  smile,  though,  plainly  shows  it 

Is  a  very  happy  state ! 
Dan  Cupid's  necromancy ! 

You  must  sit  you  down  and  dine, 
And  lubricate  your  fancy 

With  a  glass  or  two  of  wine. 

And  as  you  have  "deserted," 

As  my  other  chums  have  done, 
While  I  laugh  alone  diverted, 

As  you  drop  off  one  by  one — 
And  I've  remained  unwedded, 

Till — you  see — look  here — that  I'm, 
In  a  manner,  "snatched  bald-headed" 

By  the  sportive  hand  of  Time ! 

I'm  an  "old  'tin !"  yes,  but  wrinkles 

Are  not  so  plenty,  quite, 
As  to  cover  up  the  twinkles 

Of  the  boy— ain't  I  right? 
40 


MY  JOLLY  FRIEND'S  SECRET  41 

Yet,  there  are  ghosts  of  kisses 

Under  this  mustache  of  mine 
My  mem'ry  only  misses 

When  I  drowned  'em  out  with  wine. 

From  acknowledgment  so  ample, 

You  would  hardly  take  me  for 
What  I  am — a  perfect  sample 

Of  a  "jolly  bachelor"; 
Not  a  bachelor  has  being 

When  he  laughs  at  married  life 
But  his  heart  and  soul's  agreeing 

That  he  ought  to  have  a  wife  ] 

Ah,  ha !  old  chum,  this  claret, 

Like  Fatima,  holds  the  key 
Of  the  old  Blue-Beardish  garret 

Of  my  hidden  mystery ! 
Did  you  say  you'd  like  to  listen? 

Ah,  my  boy!  the  "Sad  No  More!" 
And  the  tear-drops  that  will  glisten — 

Turn  the  catch  upon  the  door, 

And  sit  you  down  beside  me, 

And  put  yourself  at  ease — 
I'll  trouble  you  to  slide  me 

That  wine  decanter,  please; 
The  path  is  kind  o'  mazy 

Where  my  fancies  have  to  go, 
And  my  heart  gets  sort  o'  lazy 

On  the  journey — don't  you  know? 


42  MY  JOLLY  FRIEND'S  SECRET 

Let  me  see — when  I  was  twenty — 

It's  a  lordly  age,  my  boy, 
When  a  fellow's  money's  plenty, 

And  the  leisure  to  enjoy — 
And  a  girl — with  hair  as  golden 

As — that;  and  lips — well — quite 
As  red  as  this  I'm  holdin' 

Between  you  and  the  light. 

And  eyes  and  a  complexion — 

Ah,  heavens ! — le'-me-see — 
Well, — just  in  this  connection, — 

Did  you  lock  that  door  for  me? 
Did  I  start  in  recitation 

My  past  life  to  recall? 
Well,  that's  an  indication 

I  am  purty  tight — that's  all ! 


THE  SPEEDING  OF  THE  KING'S  SPITE 

A    KING — estranged  from  his  loving  Queen 
/~\  By  a  foolish  royal  whim — 
Tired  and  sick  of  the  dull  routine 

Of  matters  surrounding  him — 
Issued  a  mandate  in  this  wise : — 

"The  dower  of  my  daughter's  hand 
I  will  give  to  him  who  holds  this  prize, 

The  strangest  thing  in  the  land." 

But  the  King,  sad  sooth !  in  this  grim  decree 

Had  a  motive  low  and  mean; — 
'Twas  a  royal  piece  of  chicanery 

To  harry  and  spite  the  Queen ; 
For  King  though  he  was,  and  beyond  compare, 

He  had  ruled  all  things  save  one- 
Then  blamed  the  Queen  that  his  only  heir 

Was  a  daughter — not  a  son. 

The  girl  had  grown,  in  the  mother's  care, 
Like  a  bud  in  the  shine  and  shower 

That  drinks  of  the  wine  of  the  balmy  air 
Till  it  blooms  into  matchless  flower; 


43 


44     THE  SPEEDING  OF  THE  KING'S  SPITE 

Her  waist  was  the  rose's  sterrf  that  bore 
The  flower — and  the  flower's  perfume — 

That  ripens  on  till  it  bulges  o'er 
With  its  wealth  of  bud  and  bloom. 

And  she  had  a  lover — lowly  sprung, — 

But  a  purer,  nobler  heart 
Never  spake  in  a  courtlier  tongue 

Or  wooed  with  a  dearer  art : 
And  the  fair  pair  paled  at  the  King's  decree ; 

But  the  smiling  Fates  contrived 
To  have  them  wed,  in  a  secrecy 

That  the  Queen  herself  connived — 

While  the  grim  King's  heralds  scoured  the  land 

And  the  countries  roundabout, 
Shouting  aloud,  at  the  King's  command, 

A  challenge  to  knave  or  lout, 
Prince  or  peasant, — "The  mighty  King 

Would  have  ye  understand 
That  he  who  shows  him  the  strangest  thing 

Shall  have  his  daughter's  hand!" 

And  thousands  flocked  to  the  royal  throne, 

Bringing  a  thousand  things 
Strange  and  curious; — One,  a  bone — 

The  hinge  of  a  fairy's  wings ; 
And  one,  the  glass  of  a  mermaid  queen, 

Gemmed  with  a  diamond  dew, 
Where,  down  in  its  reflex,  dimly  seen, 

Her  face  smiled  out  at  you. 


THE  SPEEDING  OF   THE  KING'S  SPITE     45 

One  brought  a  cluster  of  some  strange  date, 

With  a  subtle  and  searching  tang 
That  seemed,  as  you  tasted,  to  penetrate 

The  heart  like  a  serpent's  fang; 
And  back  you  fell  for  a  spell  entranced, 

As  cold  as  a  corpse  of  stone, 
And  heard  your  brains,  as  they  laughed  and 
danced 

And  talked  in  an  undertone. 

One  brought  a  bird  that  could  whistle  a  tune 

So  piercingly  pure  and  sweet, 
That  tears  would  fall  from  the  eyes  of  the  moon 

In  dewdrops  at  its  feet; 
And  the  winds  would  sigh  at  the  sweet  refrain, 

Till  they  swooned  in  an  ecstacy, 
To  waken  again  in  a  hurricane 

Of  riot  and  jubilee. 

One  brought  a  lute  that  was  wrought  of  a  shell 

Luminous  as  the  shine 
Of  a  new-born  star  in  a  dewy  dell, — 

And  its  strings  were  strands  of  wine 
That  sprayed  at  the  Fancy's  touch  and  fused, 

As  your  listening  spirit  leant 
Drunken  through  with  the  airs  that  oozed 

From  the  o'ersweet  instrument. 

One  brought  a  tablet  of  ivory 

Whereon  no  thing  was  writ, — 
But,  at  night — and  the  dazzled  eyes  would  see 

Flickering  lines  o'er  it, — 


46     THE  SPEEDING  OF   THE  KING'S  SPITE. 

And  each,  as  you  read  from  the  magic  tome, 

Lightened  and  died  in  flame, 
And  the  memory  held  but  a  golden  poem 

Too  beautiful  to  name. 

Till  it  seemed  all  marvels  that  ever  were  known 

Or  dreamed  of  under  the  sun 
Were  brought  and  displayed  at  the  royal  throne, 

And  put  by,  one  by  one; — 
Till  a  graybeard  monster  came  to  the  King — 

Haggard  and  wrinkled  and  old — 
And  spread  to  his  gaze  this  wondrous  thing, — 

A  gossamer  veil  of  gold. — 

Strangely  marvelous — mocking  the  gaze 

Like  a  tangle  of  bright  sunshine, 
Dipping  a  million  glittering  rays 

In  a  baptism  divine : 
And  a  maiden,  sheened  in  this  gauze  attire — 

Sifting  a  glance  of  her  eye — 
Dazzled  men's  souls  with  a  fierce  desire 

To  kiss  and  caress  her  and — die. 

And  the  grim  King  swore  by  his  royal  beard 

That  the  veil  had  won  the  prize, 
While  the  gray  old  monster  blinked  and  leered 

With  his  lashless,  red-rimmed  eyes, 
As  the  fainting  form  of  the  princess  fell, 

And  the  mother's  heart  went  wild, 
Throbbing  and  swelling  a  muffled  knell 

For  the  dead  hopes  of  her  child. 


THE  SPEEDING  OF   THE  KING'S  SPITE     47 

But  her  clouded  face  with  a  faint  smile  shone, 

As  suddenly,  through  the  throng, 
Pushing  his  way  to  the  royal  throne, 

A  fair  youth  strode  along, 
While  a  strange  smile  hovered  about  his  eyes, 

As  he  said  to  the  grim  old  King : — 
"The  veil  of  gold  must  lose  the  prize ; 

For  /  have  a  stranger  thing." 

He  bent  and  whispered  a  sentence  brief ; 

But  the  monarch  shook  his  head, 
With  a  look  expressive  of  unbelief — 

"It  can't  be  so,"  he  said ; 
"Or  give  me  proof ;  and  I,  the  King, 

Give  you  my  daughter's  hand, — 
For  certes  THAT  is  a  stranger  thing — 

The  strangest  thing  in  the  land  I" 

Then  the  fair  youth,  turning,  caught  the  Queen 

In  a  rapturous  caress, 
While  his  lithe  form  towered  in  lordly  mien, 

As  he  said  in  a  brief  address : — 
"My  fair  bride's  mother  is  this ;  and,  lo, 

As  you  stare  in  your  royal  awe, 
By  this  pure  kiss  do  I  proudly  show 

A  love  for  a  mother-in-law!" 

Then  a  thaw  set  in  the  old  King's  mood, 

And  a  sweet  Spring  freshet  came 
Into  his  eyes,  and  his  heart  renewed 

Its  love  for  the  favored  dame: 


48     THE   SPEEDING   OF   THE  KING'S   SPITE 

But  often  he  has  been  heard  to  declare 
That  "he  never  could  clearly  see 

How,  in  the  deuce,  such  a  strange  affair 
Could  have  ended  so  happily!" 


JOB  WORK 

"T  T  TRITE  me  a  rhyme  of  the  present  time" 
V  V      And  the  poet  took  his  pen 

And  wrote  such  lines  as  the  miser  minds 
Hide  in  the  hearts  of  men. 

He  grew  enthused,  as  the  poets  used 
When  their  fingers  kissed  the  strings 

Of  some  sweet  lyre,  and  caught  the  fire 
True  inspiration  brings, 

And  sang  the  song  of  a  nation's  wrong — 

Of  the  patriot's  galling  chain, 
And  the  glad  release  that  the  angel,  Peace, 

Has  given  him  again. 

He  sang  the  lay  of  religion's  sway, 
Where  a  hundred  creeds  clasp  hands 

And  shout  in  glee  such  a  symphony 
That  the  whole  world  understands. 
49 


50  JOB    WORK 

He  struck  the  key  of  monopoly, 
And  sang  of  her  swift  decay, 

And  traveled  the  track  of  the  railway  back 
With  a  blithesome  roundelay — 

Of  the  tranquil  bliss  of  a  true  love  kiss  ; 

And  painted  the  picture,  too, 
Of  the  wedded  life,  and  the  patient  wife, 

And  the  husband  fond  and  true ; 

And  sang  the  joy  that  a  noble  boy 

Brings  to  a  father's  soul, 
Who  lets  the  wine  as  a  mocker  shine 

Stagnated  in  the  bowl. 

And  he  stabbed  his  pen  in  the  ink  again, 
And  wrote,  with  a  writhing  frown, 

"This  is  the  end."    "And  now,  my  friend, 
You  may  print  it — upside  down!" 


PRIVATE  THEATRICALS 

A  QUITE  convincing  axiom 
Is,  "Lit e  is  like  a  play" ; 
For,  turning  back  its  pages  some 
Few  dog-eared  years  away, 
I  find  where  I 
Committed  my 
Love-tale — with  brackets  where  to  sigh. 

I  feel  an  idle  interest 

To  read  again  the  page; 
I  enter,  as  a  lover  dressed, 
At  twenty  years  of  age, 
And  play  the  part 
With  throbbing  heart, 
And  all  an  actor's  glowing  art. 

And  she  who  plays  my  Lady-love 

Excels  ! — Her  loving  glance 
Has  power  her  audience  to  move — 
I  am  her  audience — 
Her  acting  tact, 
To  tell  the  fact, 

"Brings  down  the  house"  in  every  act. 
51 


52  PRIVATE    THEATRICALS 

And  often  we  defy  the  curse 

Of  storms  and  thunder-showers, 
To  meet  together  and  rehearse 
This  little  play  of  ours— 
I  think,  when  she 
"Makes  love"  to  me, 
She  kisses  very  naturally ! 

Yes;  it's  convincing — rather — 

That  "Life  is  like  a  play" : 
I  am  playing  "Heavy  Father" 
In  a  "Screaming  Farce"  to-day, 
That  so  "brings  down 
The  house,"  I  frown, 
And  fain  would  "ring  the  curtain  down." 


PLAIN  SERMONS 

I  SAW  a  man — and  envied  him  beside — 
Because  of  this  world's  goods  he  had  great 
store ; 

But  even  as  I  envied  him,  he  died, 
And  left  me  envious  of  him  no  more. 

I  saw  another  man — and  envied  still — 
Because  he  was  content  with  frugal  lot; 

But  as  I  envied  him,  the  rich  man's  will 
Bequeathed  him  all,  and  envy  I  forgot. 

Yet  still  another  man  I  saw,  and  he 
I  envied  for  a  calm  and  tranquil  mind 

That  nothing  fretted  in  the  least  degree — 
Until,  alas !  I  found  that  he  was  blind. 

What  vanity  is  envy!  for  I  find 

I  have  been  rich  in  dross  of  thought,  and  poor 
In  that  I  was  a  fool,  and  lastly  blind — 

For  never  having  seen  myself  before ! 
53 


"TRADIN'  JOE" 

I'M  one  o'  these  cur'ous  kind  o'  chaps 
You  think  you  know  when  you  don't, 

perhaps ! 

I  hain't  no  fool — ner  I  don't  p'tend 
To  be  so  smart  I  could  rickommend 
Myself  f er  a  conger ssman,  my  friend ! — 
But  I'm  kind  o'  betwixt-and-between,  you 

know, — 

One  o'  these  fellers  'at  folks  call  "slow." 
And  I'll  say  jest  here  I'm  kind  o'  queer 
Regardin'  things  'at  I  see  and  hear, — 
Fer  I'm  thick  o'  hearin'  sometimes,  and 
It's  hard  to  git  me  to  understand ; 
But  other  times  it  hain't,  you  bet! 
Fer  I  don't  sleep  with  both  eyes  shet ! 

I've  swapped  a  power  in  stock,  and  so 
The  neighbers  calls  me  "Tradin'  Joe"— 
And  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you  'bout  a  trade, — 
And  one  o'  the  best  I  ever  made : 

Folks  has  gone  so  fur's  to  say 
'At  I'm  well  fixed,  in  a  worldly  way, 
And  bein'  so,  and  a  widower, 
It's  not  su'prisin',  as  you'll  infer, 
I'm  purty  handy  among  the  sect — 
54 


"TRAD1N'  JOE"  55 

Widders  especially,  rickollect! 

And  I  won't  deny  that  along  o'  late 

I've  hankered  a  heap  f er  the  married  state — 

But  some  way  o'  'nother  the  longer  we  wait 

The  harder  it  is  to  discover  a  mate. 

Marshall  Thomas, — a  friend  o'  mine, 

Doin'  some  in  the  tradin'  line, 

But  a'most  too  young  to  know  it  all — 

On'y  at  picnics  er  some  ball! — 

Says  to  me,  in  a  banterin'  way, 

As  we  was  a-loaclin'  stock  one  day, — 

"You're  a-huntin'  a  wife,  and  I  want  you  to  see 

My  girl's  mother,  at  Kankakee ! — 

She  hain't  over  forty — good-lookin'  and  spry, 

And  jest  the  woman  to  fill  your  eye! 

And  I'm  a-goin'  there  Sund'y, — and  now," 

says  he, 

"I  want  to  take  you  along  with  me; 
And  you  marry  her,  and,"  he  says,  "by  'shaw ! 
You'll  hev  me  fer  yer  son-in-law !" 
I  studied  a  while,  and  says  I,  "Well,  I'll 
First  have  to  see  ef  she  suits  my  style; 
And  ef  she  does,  you  kin  bet  your  life 
Your  mother-in-law  will  be  my  wife !" 

Well,  Sund'y  come ;  and  I  fixed  up  some — 
Putt  on  a  collar — I  did,  by  gum ! — 
Got  down  my  "plug,"  and  my  satin  vest — 
(You  wouldn't  know  me  to  see  me  dressed! — 


56  "TRADIN'  JOE" 

But  any  one  knows  ef  you  got  the  clothes 
You  kin  go  in  the  crowd  wher'  the  best  of  'em 

goes!) 

And  I  greeced  my  boots,  and  combed  my  hair 
Keerf ully  over  the  bald  place  there ; 
And  Marshall  Thomas  and  me  that  day 
Eat  our  dinners  with  Widder  Gray 
And  her  girl  Han' !     *     *     * 

Well,  jest  a  glance 
O'  the  widder's  smilin'  countenance, 
A-cuttin'  up  chicken  and  big  pot-pies, 
Would  make  a  man  hungry  in  Paradise! 
And  passin'  p'serves  and  jelly  and  cake 
'At  would  make  an  angel's  appetite  ache! — 
Pourin'  out  coffee  as  yaller  as  gold — 
Twic't  as  much  as  the  cup  could  hold — 
La!  it  was  rich! — And  then  she'd  say, 
"Take  some  o'  this!"  in  her  coaxin'  way, 
Tell  ef  I'd  been  a  hoss  I'd  'a'  foundered,  shore, 
And  jest  dropped  dead  on  her  white-oak  floor! 

Well,  the  way  I  talked  would  'a*  done  you  good, 
Ef  you'd  'a'  been  there  to  'a'  understood ; 
Tel  I  noticed  Hanner  and  Marshall,  they 
Was  a-noticin'  me  in  a  cur'ous  way; 
So  I  says  to  myse'f,  says  I,  "Now,  Joe, 
The  best  thing  fer  you  is  to  jest  go  slow!" 
And  I  simmered  down,  and  let  them  do 
The  bulk  o'  the  talkin'  the  evening  through. 


"TRADIN'  JOE"  57 

And  Marshall  was  still  in  a  talkative  gait 
When  he  left,  that  evening — tolable  late. 
"How  do  you  like  her  ?"  he  says  to  me ; 
Says  I,  "She  suits,  to  a  't-y-7V*Y' 
And  then  I  ast  how  matters  stood 
With  him  in  the  opposite  neighberhood  ? 
"Bully !"  he  says ;  "I  ruther  guess 
I'll  finally  git  her  to  say  the  'yes.' 
I  named  it  to  her  to-night,  and  she 
Kind  o'  smiled,  and  said  'she'd  see' — 
And  that's  a  purty  good  sign !"  says  he : 
"Yes,"  says  I,  "you're  ahead  o'  me!" 
And  then  he  laughed,  and  said,  "Go  in!" 
And  patted  me  on  the  shoulder  ag'in. 

Well,  ever  sense  then  I've  been  ridin'  a  good 
Deal  through  the  Kankakee  neighberhood ; 
And  I  make  it  convenient  sometimes  to  stop 
And  hitch  a  few  minutes,  and  kind  o'  drop 
In  at  the  widder's,  and  talk  o'  the  crop 
And  one  thing  o'  'nother.    And  week  afore  last 
The  notion  struck  me,  as  I  drove  past, 
I'd  stop  at  the  place  and  state  my  case — 
Might  as  well  do  it  at  first  as  last ! 

I  felt  first-rate ;  so  I  hitched  at  the  gate, 
And  went  up  to  the  house;  and,  strange  to 

relate, 

Marshall  Thomas  had  dropped  in,  too. — 
"Glad  to  see  you,  sir,  how  do  you  do  ?" 
He  says,  says  he!    Well — it  sounded  queer; 


58  "TRADIN'  JOE" 

And  when  Han'  told  me  to  take  a  cheer, 
Marshall  got  up  and  putt  out  o'  the  room — 
And  motioned  his  hand  fer  the  widder  to  come. 
I  didn't  say  nothin'  fer  quite  a  spell, 
But  thinks  I  to  myse'f,  "There's  a  dog  in  the 

well  I" 

And  Han'  she  smiled  so  cur'ous  at  me — 
Says  I,  "What's  up?"  And  she  says,  says  she, 
"Marshall's  been  at  me  to  marry  ag'in, 
And  I  told  him  'no/  jest  as  you  come  in." 
Well,  somepin'  o'  'nother  in  that  girl's  voice 
Says  to  me,  "Joseph,  here's  your  choice !" 
And  another  minute  her  guileless  breast 
Was  lovin'ly  throbbin'  ag'in  my  vest! — 
And  then  I  kissed  her,  and  heerd  a  smack 
Come  like  a'  echo  a-flutterin'  back, 
And  we  looked  around,  and  in  full  view 
Marshall  was  kissin'  the  widder,  too! 
Well,  we  all  of  us  laughed,  in  our  glad  surprise, 
Tel  the  tears  come  a-streamin'  out  of  our  eyes ! 
And  when  Marsh  said   "  'Twas  the  squarest 

trade 

That  ever  me  and  him  had  made," 
We  both  shuck  hands,  'y  jucks!  and  swore 
We'd  stick  together  ferevermore. 
And  old  Squire  Chipman  tuck  us  the  trip : 
And  Marshall  and  me's  in  pardnership ! 


DOT  LEEDLE  BOY 

OX'S  a  leedle  Gristmas  story 
Dot  I  told  der  leedle  folks — 
Und  I  vant  you  stop  dot  laughin' 

Und  grackin'  funny  jokes ! — 
So  help  me  Peter-Moses! 

Ot's  no  time  for  monkey-shine, 
Ober  I  vast  told  you  somedings 
Of  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine ! 

Ot  vas  von  cold  Vinter  vedder, 

Ven  der  snow  vas  all  about — 
Dot  you  have  to  chop  der  hatchet 

Eef  you  got  der  sauerkraut! 
Und  der  cheekens  on  der  hind  leg 

Vas  standin'  in  der  shine 
Der  sun  shmile  out  dot  morning 

On  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine. 

He  vas  yoost  a  leedle  baby 

Not  bigger  as  a  doll 
Dot  time  I  got  acquaintet — 

Ach  !  you  ought  to  heard  'im  squall  !- 
59 


60  DOT  LEEDLE  BOY 

I  grackys !  dot's  der  moosic 
Ot  make  me  feel  so  fine 

Ven  first  I  vas  been  marriet — 
Oh,  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine ! 

He  look  yoost  like  his  fader ! — 

So,  ven  der  vimmen  said, 
"Vot  a  purty  leedle  baby 1" 

Katrina  shake  der  head.     .     .     . 
I  dink  she  must  'a'  notice 

Dot  der  baby  vas  a-gryin', 
Und  she  cover  up  der  blankets 

Of  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine. 

Vel,  ven  he  vas  got  bigger, 

Dot  he  grawl  und  bump  his  nose, 
Und  make  der  table  over, 

Und  molasses  on  his  glothes — 
Dot  make  'im  all  der  sveeter, — 

So  I  say  to  my  Katrine, 
"Better  you  vas  quit  a-shpankin' 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine !" 

No  more  he  vas  older 

As  about  a  dozen  months 
He  speak  der  English  language 

Und  der  German — bote  at  vonce! 
Und  he  dringk  his  glass  of  lager 

Like  a  Londsman  fon  der  Rhine — • 
Und  I  klingk  my  glass  togeder 

Mit  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine ! 


DOT  LEEDLE  BOY  61 

I  vish  you  could  V  seen  id — 

Ven  he  glimb  up  on  der  chair 
Und  shmash  der  lookin'-glasses 

Ven  he  try  to  comb  his  hair 
Mit  a  hammer ! — Und  Katrina 

Say,  "Dot's  an  ugly  sign!" 
But  I  laugh  und  vink  my  fingers 

At  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine. 

But  vonce,  dot  Vinter  morning, 

He  shlip  out  in  der  snow 
Mitout  no  stockin's  on  'im. — 

He  say  he  "vant  to  go 
Und  fly  some  mit  der  birdies  !" 

Und  ve  give  'im  medi-cine 
Ven  he  catch  der  "parrygoric" — 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine ! 

Und  so  I  set  und  nurse  'im, 

Vile  der  Gristmas  vas  come  roun', 
Und  I  told  'im  'bout  "Kriss  Kringle," 

How  he  come  der  chimbly  down : 
Und  I  ask  'im  eef  he  love  'im 

Eef  he  bring  'im  someding  fine  ? 
"Nicht  besser  as  mein  fader," 

Say  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine. — 

Und  he  put  his  arms  aroun'  me 

Und  hug  so  close  und  tight, 
I  hear  der  gclock  a-tickin' 

All  der  balance  of  der  night !     .     .     . 


62  DOT  LEEDLE  BOY 

Someding  make  me  feel  so  funny 
Veil  I  say  to  my  Katrine, 

"Let  us  go  und  fill  der  stockin's 
Of  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine." 

Veil. — Ve  buyed  a  leedle  horses 

Dot  you  pull  'im  mit  a  shtring, 
Und  a  leedle  fancy  jay-bird — 

Eef  you  vant  to  hear  'im  sing 
You  took  'im  by  der  topknot 

Und  yoost  blow  in  behine — 
Und  dot  make  much  spectakel 

For  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine ! 

Und  gandies,  nuts  und  raizens — 

Und  I  buy  a  leedle  drum 
Dot  I  vant  to  hear  'im  rattle 

Ven  der  Gristmas  morning  come! 
Und  a  leedle  shmall  tin  rooster 

Dot  vould  crow  so  loud  und  fine 
Ven  he  sqveeze  'im  in  der  morning, 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine! 

Und — vile  ve  vas  a-fixin' — 

Dot  leedle  boy  vake  out! 
I  thought  he  been  a-dreamin' 

"Kriss  Kringle"  vas  about, — 
For  he  say — "Dofs  him! — /  see  'im 

Mit  der  shtars  dot  make  der  shine!" 
Und  he  yoost  keep  on  a-gryin' — 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine, — 


DOT  LEEDLE  BOY  63 

Und  gottin'  vorse  und  vorser — 

Und  tumble  on  der  bed ! 
So — ven  der  doctor  seen  id, 

He  kindo'  shake  his  head, 
Und  feel  his  pulse — und  visper, 

"Der  boy  is  a-dyinY' 
You  dink  I  could  believe  id? — 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine? 

I  told  you,  friends — dot's  someding, 

Der  last  time  dot  he  speak 
Und  say,  "Goot-by ,    Kriss  Kringle!" 

— Dot  make  me  feel  so  veak 
I  yoost  kneel  down  und  drimble, 

Und  bur-sed  out  a-gryin', 
"Mein  Gott,  mein  Gott  in  Himniel! — 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine!" 


Der  sun  don't  shine  dot  Gristmas ! 

.  .  .  Eef  dot  leedle  boy  vould  liff'd— 
No  deefer-en' !  for  Heaven  vas 

His  leedle  Gristmas  gift! 
Und  der  rooster,  und  der  gandy, 

Und  me — und  my  Katrine — 
Und  der  jay-bird — is  a-vaiting 

For  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine. 


I  SMOKE  MY  PIPE 

I  CAN'T  extend  to  every  friend 
In  need  a  helping  hand — 
No  matter  though  I  wish  it  so, 
'Tis  not  as  Fortune  planned ; 
But  haply  may  I  fancy  they 

Are  men  of  different  stripe 
Than  others  think  who  hint  and  wink,- 
And  so — I  smoke  my  pipe ! 

A  golden  coal  to  crown  the  bowl — 

My  pipe  and  I  alone, — 
I  sit  and  muse  with  idler  views 

Perchance  than  I  should  own : — 
It  might  be  worse  to  own  the  purse 

Whose  glutted  bowels  gripe 
In  little  qualms  of  stinted  alms ; 

And  so  I  smoke  my  pipe. 

And  if  inclined  to  moor  my  mind 
And  cast  the  anchor  Hope, 

A  puff  of  breath  will  put  to  death 
The  morbid  misanthrope 
64 


I  SMOKE  MY  PIPE  65 

That  lurks  inside — as  errors  hide 

In  standing  forms  of  type 
To  mar  at  birth  some  line  of  worth ; 

And  so  I  smoke  my  pipe. 

The  subtle  stings  misfortune  flings 

Can  give  me  little  pain 
When  my  narcotic  spell  has  wrought 

This  quiet  in  my  brain: 
When  I  can  waste  the  past  in  taste 

So  luscious  and  so  ripe 
That  like  an  elf  I  hug  myself ; 

And  so  I  smoke  my  pipe. 

And  wrapped  in  shrouds  of  drifting  clouds 

I  watch  the  phantom's  flight, 
Till  alien  eyes  from  Paradise 

Smile  on  me  as  I  write : 
And  I  forgive  the  wrongs  that  live, 

As  lightly  as  I  wipe 
Away  the  tear  that  rises  here ; 

And  so  I  smoke  my  pipe. 


RED  RIDING-HOOD 

SWEET  little  myth  of  the  nursery  story- 
Earliest  love  of  mine  infantile  breast, 
Be  something  tangible,  bloom  in  thy  glory 

Into  existence,  as  thou  art  addressed ! 
Hasten !  appear  to  me,  guileless  and  good — 
Thou  are  so  dear  to  me,  Red  Riding-Hood! 

Azure-blue  eyes,  in  a  marvel  of  wonder, 
Over  the  dawn  of  a  blush  breaking  out ; 

Sensitive  nose,  with  a  little  smile  under 
Trying  to  hide  in  a  blossoming  pout — 

Couldn't  be  serious,  try  as  you  would, 

Little  mysterious   Red   Riding-Hood! 

Hah!  little  girl,  it  is  desolate,  lonely, 
Out  in  this  gloomy  old  forest  of  Life ! — 

Here  are  not  pansies  and  buttercups  only — 
Brambles  and  briers  as  keen  as  a  knife ; 

And  a  Heart,  ravenous,  trails  in  the  wood 

For  the  meal  have  he  must, — Red  Riding- 
Hood! 


66 


he 

AV   OLD   SWEETHEART   OF   MINE  69 

So  I  turn  the  leaves  of  Fancy,  till,  in  shadowy  de 
sign, 

I  find  the  smiling  features  of  an  old  sweetheart  of 
mine. 

The  lamplight  seems  to  glimmer  with  a  flicker  of 

surprise, 
As  I  turn  it  low — to  rest  me  of  the  dazzle  in  my 

eyes, 
And  light  my  pipe  in  silence,  save  a  sigh  that  seems 

to  yoke 
Its  fate  with  my  tobacco  and  to  vanish  with  the 

smoke. 

Tis  a  fragrant  retrospection, — for  the  loving 
thoughts  that  start 

Into  being  are  like  perfume  from  the  blossom  of  the 
heart ; 

And  to  dream  the  old  dreams  over  is  a  luxury  di 
vine — 

When  my  truant  fancies  wander  with  that  old 
sweetheart  of  mine. 

Thougn  I  hear  beneath  my  study,  like  a  fluttering  of 

wings, 
The  voices  of  my  children  and  the  mother  as  she 

sings— 
I  feel  no  twinge  of  conscience  to  deny  me  any 

theme 
When  Care  has  cast  her  anchor  in  the  harbor  of  a 

dream — 


70  AN  OLD   SWEETHEART  OF  MINE 

In  fact,  to  speak  in  earnest,  I  believe  it  adds  a 
charm 

To  spice  the  good  a  trifle  with   a  little   dust  of 
harm, — 

For  I  find  an  extra  flavor  in  Memory's  mellow 
wine 

That  makes  me  drink  the  deeper  to  that  old  sweet 
heart  of  mine. 


O  Childhood-days  enchanted!    O  the  magic  of  the 

Spring ! — 
With  all  green  boughs  to  blossom  white,  and  all 

bluebirds  to  sing ! 
When  all  the  air,  to  toss  and  quaff,  made  life  a 

jubilee 
And  changed  the  children's  song  and  laugh  to 

shrieks  of  ecstasy. 

With  eyes  half  closed  in  clouds  that  ooze  from  lips 
that  taste,  as  well, 

The  peppermint  and  cinnamon,  I  hear  the  old 
School  bell, 

And  from  "Recess"  romp  in  again   from  "Black- 
man's"  broken  line, 

To  smile,  behind  my  "lesson,"  at  that  old  sweet 
heart  of  mine. 


A  face  of  lily-beauty,  with  a  form  of  airy  grace, 
Floats  out  of  my  tobacco  as  the  Genii  from  the  vase ; 


AN   OLD   SWEETHEART  OF  MINE  /I 

And  I  thrill  beneath  the  glances  of  a  pair  of  azure 

eyes 
As  glowing  as  the  summer  and  as  tender  as  the 

skies. 

I  can  see  the  pink  sunbonnet  and  the  little  checkered 

dress 
She  wore  when  first  I  kissed  her  and  she  answered 

the  caress 
With  the  written  declaration  that,  "as  surely  as  the 

vine 
Grew  'round  the  stump,"  she  loved  me — that  old 

sweetheart  of  mine. 

Again  I  made  her  presents,  in  a  really  helpless 
way,— 

The  big  "Rhode  Island  Greening" — I  was  hungry, 
too,  that  day ! — 

But  I  follow  her  from  Spelling,  with  her  hand  be 
hind  her — so — 

And  I  slip  the  apple  in  it— and  the  Teacher  doesn't 
know! 

I  give  my  treasures  to  her — all, — my  pencil — blue- 
and-red ; — 

And,  if  little  girls  played  marbles,  mine  should  all 
be  hers,  instead! 

But  she  gave  me  her  photograph,  and  printed  "Ever 
Thine" 

Across  the  back — in  blue-and-red — that  old  sweet 
heart  of  mine ! 


70  AN  OLD   SWEETHEART  OF  MINE 

In  fact,  to  speak  in  earnest,  I  believe  it  adds  a 
charm 

To  spice  the  good  a  trifle  with   a  little   dust  of 
harm, — 

For  I  find  an  extra  flavor  in  Memory's  mellow 
wine 

That  makes  me  drink  the  deeper  to  that  old  sweet 
heart  of  mine. 


O  Childhood-days  enchanted!     O  the  magic  of  the 

Spring ! — 
With  all  green  boughs  to  blossom  white,  and  all 

bluebirds  to  sing ! 
When  all  the  air,  to  toss  and  quaff,  made  life  a 

jubilee 
And  changed  the  children's  song  and  laugh  to 

shrieks  of  ecstasy. 

With  eyes  half  closed  in  clouds  that  ooze  from  lips 
that  taste,  as  well, 

The  peppermint  and  cinnamon,  I  hear  the  old 
School  bell, 

And  from  "Recess"  romp  in  again   from  "Black- 
man's"  broken  line, 

To  smile,  behind  my  "lesson,"  at  that  old  sweet 
heart  of  mine. 


A  face  of  lily-beauty,  with  a  form  of  airy  grace, 
Floats  out  of  my  tobacco  as  the  Genii  from  the  vase ; 


AN   OLD   SWEETHEART  OF  MINE  71 

And  I  thrill  beneath  the  glances  of  a  pair  of  azure 

eyes 
As  glowing  as  the  summer  and  as  tender  as  the 

skies. 

I  can  see  the  pink  sunbonnet  and  the  little  checkered 

dress 
She  wore  when  first  I  kissed  her  and  she  answered 

the  caress 
With  the  written  declaration  that,  "as  surely  as  the 

vine 
Grew  'round  the  stump,"  she  loved  me — that  old 

sweetheart  of  mine. 

Again  I  made  her  presents,  in  a  really  helpless 
way,— 

The  big  "Rhode  Island  Greening" — I  was  hungry, 
too,  that  day ! — 

But  I  follow  her  from  Spelling,  with  her  hand  be 
hind  her — so — 

And  I  slip  the  apple  in  it — and  the  Teacher  doesn't 
know! 

I  give  my  treasures  to  her — all, — my  pencil — blue- 
and-red ; — 

And,  if  little  girls  played  marbles,  mine  should  all 
be  hers,  instead! 

But  she  gave  me  her  photograph,  and  printed  "Ever 
Thine" 

Across  the  back — in  blue-and-red — that  old  sweet 
heart  of  mine ! 


72  AN  OLD   SWEETHEART  OF  MINE 

And  again  I  feel  the  pressure  of  her  slender  little 

hand, 
As  we  used  to  talk  together  of  the  future  we  had 

planned,— 
When  I  should  be  a  poet,  and  with  nothing  else 

to  do 
But  write  the  tender  verses  that  she  set  the  music 

to     ... 

When  we  should  live  together  in  a  cozy  little  cot 
Hid  in  a  nest  of  roses,  with  a  fairy  garden-spot, 
Where  the  vines  were  ever  fruited,  and  the  weather 

ever  fine, 

And  the  birds  were  ever  singing  for  that  old  sweet 
heart  of  mine. 

When  I  should  be  her  lover  forever  and  a  day, 
And  she  my  faithful  sweetheart  till'the  golden  hair 

was  gray ; 
And  we  should  be  so  happy  that  when  cither's  lips 

were  dumb 
They  would  not  smile  in  Heaven  till  the  other's  kiss 

had  come. 

But,  ah !  my  dream  is  broken  by  a  step  upon  the 

stair, 
And  the  door  is  softly  opened,  and — my  wife  is 

standing  there : 
Yet  with  eagerness  and  rapture  all  my  visions  I 

resign,— 
To  greet  the  living  presence  of  that  old  sweetheart 

of  mine. 


SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 

I  HAIN'T  no  hand  at  tellin'  tales, 
Er  spinnin'  yarns,  as  the  sailors  say ; 
Someway  o'  'nether,  language  fails 
To  slide  fer  me  in  the  oily  way 
That  lawyers  has;  and  I  wisht  it  would, 
Fer  I've  got  somepin'  that  I  call  good; 
But  bein'  only  a  country  squire, 
I've  learned  to  listen  and  admire, 
Ruther  preferrin'  to  be  addressed 
Than  talk  myse'f— but  I'll  do  my  best : — 

Old  Jeff  Thompson— well,  I'll  say, 
Was  the  clos'test  man  I  ever  saw! — 
Rich  as  cream,  but  the  porest  pay, 
And  the  meanest  man  to  work  fer — La! 
I've  knowed  that  man  to  work  one  "hand"- 
Fer  little  er  nothin',  you  understand— 
From  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  light 
Tel  eight  and  nine  o'clock  at  night, 
And  then  find  fault  with  his  appetite ! 
He'd  drive  all  over  the  neighberhood 
73 


74  SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 

To  miss  the  place  where  a  toll-gate  stood, 
And  slip  in  town,  by  some  old  road 
That  no  two  men  in  the  county  knowed, 
With  a  jag  o'  wood,  and  a  sack  o'  wheat, 
That  wouldn't  burn  and  you  couldn't  eat ! 
And  the  trades  he'd  make,  '11  I  jest  de-clare, 
Was  enough  to  make  a  preacher  swear ! 
And  then  he'd  hitch,  and  hang  about 
Tel  the  lights  in  the  toll-gate  was  blowed  out, 
And  then  the  turnpike  he'd  turn  in 
And  sneak  his  way  back  home  ag'in ! 

Some  folks  hint,  and  I  make  no  doubt, 
That  that's  what  wore  his  old  wife  out — 
Toilin'  away  from  day  to  day 
And  year  to  year,  through  heat  and  cold, 
Uncomplainin' — the  same  old  way 
The  martyrs  died  in  the  days  of  old ; 
And  a-clingin',  too,  as  the  martyrs  done, 
To  one  fixed  faith,  and  her  only  one, — 
Little  Patience,  the  sweetest  child 
That  ever  wept  unrickonciled, 
Er  felt  the  pain  and  the  ache  and  sting 
That  only  a  mother's  death  can  bring. 

Patience  Thompson! — I  think  that  name 
Must  'a'  come  from  a  power  above, 
Fer  it  seemed  to  fit  her  jest  the  same 
As  a  gaiter  would,  er  a  fine  kid  glove! 
And  to  see  that  girl,  with  all  the  care 


SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY  75 

Of  the  household  on  her — I  de-clare 
It  was  audacious,  the  work  she'd  do, 
And  the  thousand  plans  that  she'd  putt 

through ; 

And  sing  like  a  medder-lark  all  day  long, 
And  drowned  her  cares  in  the  joys  o'  song; 
And  laugh  sometimes  tel  the  farmer's  "hand," 
Away  fur  off  in  the  fields,  would  stand 
A-listenin',  with  the  plow  half  drawn, 
Tel  the  coaxin'  echoes  called  him  on; 
And  the  furries  seemed,  in  his  dreamy  eyes, 
Like  foot-paths  a-leadin'  to  Paradise, 
As  off  through  the  hazy  atmosphere 
The  call  fer  dinner  reached  his  ear. 

Now  love's  as  cunnin'  a  little  thing 

As  a  hummin'-bird  upon  the  wing, 

And  as  liable  to  poke  his  nose 

Jest  where  folks  would  least  suppose, — 

And  more'n  likely  build  his  nest 

Right  in  the  heart  you'd  leave  unguessed, 

And  Jive  and  thrive  at  your  expense — 

At  least,  that's  my  experience. 

And  old  Jeff  Thompson  often  thought, 

In  his  se'fish  way,  that  the  quiet  John 

Was  a  stiddy  chap,  as  a  farm-hand  ought 

To  always  be, — fer  the  airliest  dawn 

Found  John  busy — and  "easy,"  too, 

Whenever  his  wages  would  fall  due! — 

To  sum  him  up  with  a  final  touch, 


76  SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 

He  eat  so  little  and  worked  so  much, 
That  old  Jeff  laughed  to  hisse'f  and  said, 
"He  makes  me  money  and  aims  his  bread !" 

But  John,  fer  all  of  his  quietude, 
Would  sometimes  drap  a  word  er  so 
That  none  but  Patience  understood, 
And  none  but  her  was  meant  to  know! — 
Maybe  at  meal-times  John  would  say, 
As  the  sugar-bowl  come  down  his  way, 
"Thanky,  no ;  my  coffee's  sweet 
Enough  fer  me!"  with  sich  conceit, 
She'd  know  at  once,  without  no  doubt, 
He  meant  because  she  poured  it  out; 
And  smile  and  blush,  and  all  sich  stuff, 
And  ast  ef  it  was  "strong  enough?" 
And  git  the  answer,  neat  and  trim, 
"It  couldn't  be  too  'strong'  fer  him!" 

And  so  things  went  fer  'bout  a  year, 

Tel  John,  at  last,  found  pluck  to  go 

And  pour  his  tale  in  the  old  man's  ear — 

And  ef  it  had  been  hot  lead,  I  know 

It  couldn't  'a'  raised  a  louder  fuss, 

Ner  'a'  riled  the  old  man's  temper  wuss ! 

He  jest  lit  in,  and  cussed  and  swore, 

And  lunged  and  rared,  and  ripped  and  tore, 

And  told  John  jest  to  leave  his  door, 

And  not  to  darken  it  no  more ! 

But  Patience  cried,  with  eyes  all  wet, 

"Remember,  John,  and  don't  ferget, 


SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY  77 

Whatever  comes,  I  love  you  yet!" 

But  the  old  man  thought,  in  his  se'fish  way, 

"I'll  see  her  married  rich  some  day ; 

And  that,"  thinks  he,  "is  money  fer  me — 

And  my  will's  law,  as  it  ought  to  be !" 

So  when,  in  the  course  of  a  month  er  so, 

A  widower,  with  a  farm  er  two, 

Comes  to  Jeff's,  w'y,  the  folks,  you  know, 

Had  to  talk— as  the  folks'll  do : 

It  was  the  talk  of  the  neighberhood — 

Patience  and  John,  and  their  affairs; — 

And  this  old  chap  with  a  few  gray  hairs 

Had  "cut  John  out,"  it  was  understood. 

And  some  folks  reckoned  "Patience,  too, 

Knowed  what  she  was  a-goin'  to  do — 

It  was  like  her — la !  indeed ! — 

All  she  loved  was  dollars  and  cents — 

Like  old  Jeff — and  they  saw  no  need 

Fer  John  to  pine  at  her  negligence !" 

But  others  said,  in  a  kinder  way, 

They  missed  the  songs  she  used  to  sing — 

They  missed  the  smiles  that  used  to  play 

Over  her  face,  and  the  laughin'  ring 

Of  her  glad  voice — that  everything 

Of  her  old  se'f  seemed  dead  and  gone, 

And  this  was  the  ghost  that  they  gazed  on! 

Tel  finally  it  was  noised  about 
There  was  a  weddin*  soon  to  be 


78  SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 

Down  at  Jeff's ;  and  the  "cat  was  out" 
Shore  enough! — 'LI  the  Jee-mun-nee! 
It  riled  me  when  John  told  me  so, — 
Fer  I  was  a  friend  o'  John's,  you  know ; 
And  his  trimblin'  voice  jest  broke  in  two — 
As  a  feller's  voice'll  sometimes  do. — 
And  I  says,  says  I,  "Ef  I  know  my  biz — 
And  I  think  I  know  what  jestice  is, — 
I've  read  some  law — and  I'd  advise 
A  man  like  you  to  wipe  his  eyes 
And  square  his  jaws  and  start  agin, 
Fer  jestice  is  a-goin'  to  win!" 
And  it  wasn't  long  tel  his  eyes  had  cleared 
As  blue  as  the  skies,  and  the  sun  appeared 
In  the  shape  of  a  good  old-fashioned  smile 
That  I  hadn't  seen  fer  a  long,  long  while. 

So  we  talked  on  fer  a'  hour  er  more, 
And  sunned  ourselves  in  the  open  door, — 
Tel  a  hoss-and-buggy  down  the  road 
Come  a-drivin'  up,  that  I  guess  John  knowed, — 
Fer  he  winked  and  says,  "I'll  dessappear — 
They'd  smell  a  mice  ef  they  saw  me  here !" 
And  he  thumbed  his  nose  at  the  old  gray  mare, 
And  hid  hisse'f  in  the  house  somewhere. 

Well. — The  rig  drove  up :  and  I  raised  my  head 

As  old  Jeff  hollered  to  me  and  said 

That  "him  and  his  old  friend  there  had  come 

To  see  ef  the  squire  was  at  home." 

...  I  told  'em  "I  was ;  and  I  aimed  to  be 


SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY  79 

At  every  chance  of  a  weddin'-f  ee !" 
And  then  I  laughed — and  they  laughed,  too, — 
Fer  that  was  the  object  they  had  in  view. 
"Would  I  be  on  hands  at  eight  that  night?" 
They  ast ;  and  VI,  "You're  mighty  right, 
Til  be  on  hand !"    And  then  I  bu'st 
Out  a-laughin'  my  very  wu'st, — 
And  so  did  they,  as  they  wheeled  away 
And  drove  to'rds  town  in  a  cloud  o'  dust. 
Then  I  shet  the  door,  and  me  and  John 
Laughed  and  laughed,  and  jest  laughed  on, 
Tel  Mother  drapped  her  specs,  and  by 
Jeewhillikers!    I  thought  she'd  die! — 
And  she  couldn't  V  told,  I'll  bet  my  hat, 
What  on  earth  she  was  laughin'  at! 

But  all  o'  the  fun  o'  the  tale  hain't  done  !— 

Fer  a  drizzlin'  rain  had  jest  begun, 

And  a-havin'  'bout  four  mile'  to  ride, 

I  jest  concluded  I'd  better  light 

Out  fer  Jeff's  and  save  my  hide, — 

Fer  it  was  a-goin'  to  storm,  that  night! 

So  we  went  down  to  the  barn,  and  John 

Saddled  my  beast,  and  I  got  on ; 

And  he  told  me  somepin'  to  not  ferget, 

And  when  I  left,  he  was  laughin'  yet. 

And,  'proachin'  on  to  my  journey's  end, 
The  great  big  draps  o'  the  rain  come  down, 
And  the  thunder  growled  in  a  way  to  lend 


80  SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 

An  awful  look  to  the  lowerin'  frown 
The  dull  sky  wore ;  and  the  lightnin'  glanced 
Tel  my  old  mare  jest  more'n  pranced, 
And  tossed  her  head,  and  bugged  her  eyes 
To  about  four  times  their  natchurl  size, 
As  the  big  black  lips  of  the  clouds  'ud  drap 
Out  some  oath  of  a  thunderclap, 
And  threaten  on  in  an  undertone 
That  chilled  a  feller  clean  to  the  bone! 

But  I  struck  shelter  soon  enough 

To  save  myse'f.    And  the  house  was  jammed 

With  the  women-folks,  and  the  weddin'- 

stuff:— 

A  great,  long  table,  fairly  crammed 
With  big  pound-cakes — and  chops  and  steaks — 
And  roasts  and  stews — and  stumick-aches 
Of  every  fashion,  form,  and  size, 
From  twisters  up  to  punkin-pies! 
And  candies,  oranges,  and  figs, 
And  reezins, — all  the  "whilligigs" 
And  "jim-cracks"  that  the  law  allows 
On  sich  occasions ! — Bobs  and  bows 
Of  gigglin'  girls,  with  corkscrew  curls, 
And  fancy  ribbons,  reds  and  blues, 
And  "beau-ketchers"  and  "curliques" 
To  beat  the  world!    And  seven  o'clock 
Brought  old  Jeff ; — and  brought — the  groom, — 
With  a  sideboard-collar  on,  and  stock 
That  choked  him  so,  he  hadn't  room 
To  swaller  in,  er  even  sneeze, 


SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY  81 

Er  clear  his  th'oat  with  any  ease 

Er  comfort — and  a  good  square  cough 

Would  saw  his  Adam's  apple  off ! 

But  as  fer  Patience — My!  Oomh-oomh! — 

I  never  saw  her  look  so  sweet! — 

Her  face  was  cream  and  roses,  too ; 

And  then  them  eyes  o'  heavenly  blue 

Jest  made  an  angel  all  complete ! 

And  when  she  split  'em  up  in  smiles 

And  splintered  'em  around  the  room, 

And  danced  acrost  and  met  the  groom, 

And  laughed  out  loud — It  kind  o'  spiles 

My  language  when  I  come  to  that — 

Fer,  as  she  laid  away  his  hat, 

Thinks  I,  "The  papers  hid  inside 

Of  that  said  hat  must  make  a  bride 

A  happy  one  fer  all  her  life, 

Er  else  a  wrecked  and  wretched  wife!" 

And,  someway,  then,  I  thought  of  John, — 

Then  looked  towards  Patience.  .  .  .  She  was 

gone! — 

The  door  stood  open,  and  the  rain 
Was  dashin'  in ;  and  sharp  and  plain 
Above  the  storm  we  heerd  a  cry — 
A  ringin',  laughin',  loud  "Good-by !" 
That  died  away,  as  fleet  and  fast 
A  hoss's  hoofs  went  splashin'  past! 
And  that  was  all.    'Twas  done  that  quick !  .  .  . 
You've  heerd  o'  fellers  "lookin'  sick"? 
I  wisht  you'd  seen  the  groom  jest  then — 


82  SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 

I  wisht  you'd  seen  them  two  old  men, 

With  starin'  eyes  that  fairly  glared 

At  one  another,  and  the  scared 

And  empty  faces  of  the  crowd, — 

I  wisht  you  could  'a'  been  allowed 

To  jest  look  on  and  see  it  all, — 

And  heerd  the  girls  and  women  bawl 

And  wring  their  hands ;  and  heerd  old  Jeff 

A-cussin'  as  he  swung  hisse'f 

Upon  his  hoss,  who  champed  his  bit 

As  though  old  Nick  had  holt  of  it : 

And  cheek  by  jowl  the  two  old  wrecks 

Rode  off  as  though  they'd  break  their  necks. 

And  as  we  all  stood  starin'  out 

Into  the  night,  I  felt  the  brush 

Of  some  one's  hand,  and  turned  about, 

And  heerd  a  voice  that  whispered,  "Hush! — 

They're  waitin'  in  the  kitchen,  and 

You're  wanted.    Don't  you  understand?" 

Well,  ef  my  memory  serves  me  now, 

I  think  I  winked. — Well,  anyhow, 

I  left  the  crowd  a-gawkin'  there, 

And  jest  slipped  off  around  to  where 

The  back  door  opened,  and  went  in, 

And  turned  and  shet  the  door  ag'in, 

And  maybe  locked  it — couldn't  swear, — 

A  woman's  arms  around  me  makes 

Me  liable  to  make  mistakes. — 

I  read  a  marriage  license  nex', 

But  as  I  didn't  have  my  specs 


SQUIRE   HAWKINS'S  STORY  83 

I  jest  inferred  it  was  all  right, 
And  tied  the  knot  so  mortal-tight 
That  Patience  and  my  old  friend  John 
Was  safe  enough  from  that  time  on! 

Well,  now,  I  might  go  on  and  tell 
How  all  the  joke  at  last  leaked  out, 
And  how  the  youngsters  raised  the  yell 
And  rode  the  happy  groom  about 
Upon  their  shoulders ;  how  the  bride 
Was  kissed  a  hunderd  times  beside 
The  one  /  give  her, — tel  she  cried 
And  laughed  untel  she  like  to  died! 
I  might  go  on  and  tell  you  all 
About  the  supper — and  the  ball. — 
You'd  ought  to  see  me  twist  my  heel 
Through  jest  one  old  Furginny  reel 
Afore  you  die !  er  tromp  the  strings 
Of  some  old  riddle  tel  she  sings 
Some  old  cowtillion,  don't  you  know, 
That  putts  the  devil  in  yer  toe ! 

We  kep'  the  dancin'  up  tel  four 
O'clock,  I  reckon — maybe  more. — 
We  hardly  heerd  the  thunders  roar, 
Er  thought  about  the  storm  that  blowed — 
And  them  tivo  fellers  on  the  road! 
Tel  all  at  onc't  we  heerd  the  door 
Bu'st  open,  and  a  voice  that  swore, — 
And  old  Jeff  Thompson  tuck  the  floor. 
He  shuck  hisse'f  and  looked  around 


SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 

Like  some  old  dog  about  half-drowned — 
His  hat,  I  reckon,  'weighed  ten  pound 
To  say  the  least,  and  I'll  say,  shore, 
His  overcoat  weighed  fifty  more — 
The  wettest  man  you  ever  saw, 
To  have  so  dry  a  son-in-law! 

He  sized  it  all ;  and  Patience  laid 

Her  hand  in  John's,  and  looked  afraid, 

And  waited.    And  a  stiller  set 

O'  folks,  I  know,  you  never  met 

In  any  court  room,  where  with  dread 

They  wait  to  hear  a  verdick  read. 

The  old  man  turned  his  eyes  on  me : 

"And  have  you  married  'em  ?"  says  he. 

I  nodded  "Yes."    "Well,  that'll  do," 

He  says,  "and  now  we're  th'ough  with  you,- 

You  jest  clear  out,  and  I  decide 

And  promise  to  be  satisfied !" 

He  hadn't  nothin'  more  to  say. 

I  saw,  of  course,  how  matters  lay, 

And  left.    But  as  I  rode  away 

I  heerd  the  roosters  crow  fer  day. 


A  COUNTRY  PATHWAY 

T  COME  upon  it  suddenly,  alone — 
A     A  little  pathway  winding  in  the  weeds 
That  fringe  the  roadside ;  and  with  dreams  my  own, 
I  wander  as  it  leads. 

Full  wistfully  along  the  slender  way, 

Through  summer  tan  of  freckled  shade  and  shine, 
I  take  the  path  that  leads  me  as  it  may — 

Its  every  choice  is  mine. 

A  chipmunk,  or  a  sudden-whirring  quail, 

Is  startled  by  my  step  as  on  I  fare — 
A  garter-snake  across  the  dusty  trail 

Glances  and — is  not  there. 

Above  the  arching  jimson-weeds  flare  twos 
And  twos  of  sallow-yellow  butterflies, 

Like  blooms  of  lorn  primroses  blowing  loose 
When  autumn  winds  arise. 

The  trail  dips — dwindles — broadens  then,  and  lifts 

Itself  astride  a  cross-road  dubiously, 
And,  from  the  fennel  marge  beyond  it,  drifts 

Still  onward,  beckoning  me. 
85 


86  A   COUNTRY  PATHWAY 

And  though  it  needs  must  lure  me  mile  on  mile 
Out  of  the  public  highway,  still  I  go, 

My  thoughts,  far  in  advance  in  Indian  file, 
Allure  me  even  so. 

Why,  I  am  as  a  long-lost  boy  that  went 
At  dusk  to  bring  the  cattle  to  the  bars, 

And  was  not  found  again,  though  Heaven  lent 
His  mother  all  the  stars 

With  which  to  seek  him  through  that  awful  nigh 

0  years  of  nights  as  vain ! — Stars  never  rise 
But  well  might  miss  their  glitter  in  the  light 

Of  tears  in  mother-eyes ! 

So — on,  with  quickened  breaths,  I  follow  still — 

My  avant-courier  must  be  obeyed ! 
Thus  am  I  led,  and  thus  the  path,  at  will, 

Invites  me  to  invade 

A  meadow's  precincts,  where  my  daring  guide 
Clambers  the  steps  of  an  old-fashioned  stile, 

And  stumbles  down  again,  the  other  side, 
To  gambol  there  a  while. 

In  pranks  of  hide-and-seek,  as  on  ahead 

1  see  it  running,  while  the  clover-stalks 
Shake  rosy  fists  at  me,  as  though  they  said — 

"You  dog  our  country  walks 


A   COUNTRY  PATHWAY  87 

"And  mutilate  us  with  your  walking-stick! — 
We  will  not  suffer  tamely  what  you  do, 

And  warn  you  at  your  peril, — for  we'll  sick 
Our  bumblebees  on  you !" 

But  I  smile  back,  in  airy  nonchalance, — 

The  more  determined  on  my  wayward  quest, 

As  some  bright  memory  a  moment  dawns 
A  morning  in  my  breast — 

Sending  a  thrill  that  hurries  me  along 

In  faulty  similes  of  childish  skips, 
Enthused  with  lithe  contortions  of  a  song 

Performing  on  my  lips. 

In  wild  meanderings  o'er  pasture  wealth — 
Erratic  wanderings  through  dead'ning  lands, 

Where  sly  old  brambles,  plucking  me  by  stealth, 
Put  berries  in  my  hands : 

Or  the  path  climbs  a  boulder — wades  a  slough — 
Or,  rollicking  through  buttercups  and  flags, 

Goes  gaily  dancing  o'er  a  deep  bayou 
On  old  tree-trunks  and  snags : 

Or,  at  the  creek,  leads  o'er  a  limpid  pool 
Upon  a  bridge  the  stream  itself  has  made, 

With  some  Spring-freshet  for  the  mighty  tool 
That  its  foundation  laid. 


88  A   COUNTRY  PATHWAY 

I  pause  a  moment  here  to  bend  and  muse, 
With  dreamy  eyes,  on  my  reflection,  where 

A  boat-backed  bug  drifts  on  a  helpless  cruise, 
Or  wildly  oars  the  air, 

As,  dimly  seen,  the  pirate  of  the  brook — 
The  pike,  whose  jaunty  hulk  denotes  his  speed— 

Swings  pivoting  about,  with  wary  look 
Of  low  and  cunning  greed. 

Till,  filled  with  other  thought,  I  turn  again 
To  where  the  pathway  enters  in  a  realm 

Of  lordly  woodland,  under  sovereign  reign 
Of  towering  oak  and  elm. 

A  puritanic  quiet  here  reviles 

The  almost  whispered  warble  from  the  hedge, 
And  takes  a  locust's  rasping  voice  and  files 

The  silence  to  an  edge. 

In  such  a  solitude  my  somber  way 

Strays  like  a  misanthrope  within  a  gloom 

Of  his  own  shadows — till  the  perfect  day 
Bursts  into  sudden  bloom, 

And  crowns  a  long,  declining  stretch  of  space, 
Where  King  Corn's  armies  lie  with  flags  unfurled, 

And  where  the  valley's  dint  in  Nature's  face 
Dimples  a  smiling  world. 


A  COUNTRY  PATHWAY  89 

And  lo !  through  mists  that  may  not  be  dispelled, 
I  see  an  old  farm  homestead,  as  in  dreams, 

Where,  like  a  gem  in  costly  setting  held, 
The  old  log  cabin  gleams. 


O  darling  Pathway !  lead  me  bravely  on 
Adown  your  valley-way,  and  run  before 

Among  the  roses  crowding  up  the  lawn 
And  thronging  at  the  door, — 

And  carry  up  the  echo  there  that  shall 
Arouse  the  drowsy  dog,  that  he  may  bay 

The  household  out  to  greet  the  prodigal 
That  wanders  home  to-day. 


THE  OLD  GUITAR 

XTEGLECTED  now  is  the  old  guitar 
1  >l  And  moldering  into  decay; 
Fretted  with  many  a  rift  and  scar 

That  the  dull  dust  hides  away, 
While  the  spider  spins  a  silver  star 

In  its  silent  lips  to-day. 

The  keys  hold  only  nerveless  strings — 

The  sinews  of  brave  old  airs 
Are  pulseless  now ;  and  the  scarf  that  clings 

So  closely  here  declares 
A  sad  regret  in  its  ravelings 

And  the  faded  hue  it  wears. 

But  the  old  guitar,  with  a  lenient  grace, 

Has  cherished  a  smile  for  me ; 
And  its  features  hint  of  a  fairer  face 

That  comes  with  a  memory 
Of  a  flower-and-perfume-haunted  place 

And  a  moonlit  balcony. 
90 


THE  OLD   GUITAR  91 

Music  sweeter  than  words  confess, 

Or  the  minstrel's  powers  invent, 
Thrilled  here  once  at  the  light  caress 

Of  the  fairy  hands  that  lent 
This  excuse  for  the  kiss  I  press 

On  the  dear  old  instrument. 


The  rose  of  pearl  with  the  jeweled  stem 

Still  blooms ;  and  the  tiny  sets 
In  the  circle  all  are  here ;  the  gem 

In  the  keys,  and  the  silver  frets ; 
But  the  dainty  fingers  that  danced  o'er  them- 

Alas  for  the  heart's  regrets ! — 

Alas  for  the  loosened  strings  to-day, 
And  the  wounds  of  rift  and  scar 

On  a  worn  old  heart,  with  its  roundelay 
Enthralled  with  a  stronger  bar 

That  Fate  weaves  on,  through  a  dull  decay 
Like  that  of  the  old  guitar ! 


"FRIDAY  AFTERNOON" 

TO  WILLIAM  MORRIS  PIERSON 
[1868-1870] 

OF' the  wealth  of  facts  and  fancies 
That  our  memories  may  recall, 
The  old  school-day  romances 

Are  the  dearest,  after  all ! — 
When  some  sweet  thought  revises 

The  half-forgotten  tune 
That  opened  "Exercises" 
On  "Friday  Afternoon." 

We  seem  to  hear  the  clicking 

Of  the  pencil  and  the  pen, 
And  the  solemn,  ceaseless  ticking 

Of  the  timepiece  ticking  then ; 
And  we  note  the  watchful  master, 

As  he  waves  the  warning  rod, 
With  our  own  heart  beating  faster 

Than  the  boy's  who  threw  the  wad. 
92 


"FRIDAY  AFTERNOON"  93 

Some  little  hand  uplifted, 

And  the  creaking  of  a  shoe : — 
A  problem  left  unsifted 

For  the  teacher's  hand  to  do: 
The  murmured  hum  of  learning — 

And  the  flutter  of  a  book ; 
The  smell  of  something  burning, 

And  the  school's  inquiring  look. 

The  opening  song,  page  20. — 

And  the  girl,  with  glancing  eyes, 
Who  hides  her  smiles,  and  hushes 

The  laugh  about  to  rise, — 
Then,  with  a  quick  invention, 

Assumes  a  serious  face, 
To  meet  the  words,  "Attention ! 

Every  scholar  in  his  place !" 

The  opening  song,  page  20. — 

Ah !  dear  old  "Golden  Wreath," 
You  willed  your  sweets  in  plenty; 

And  some  who  look  beneath 
The  leaves  of  Time  will  linger, 

And  loving  tears  will  start, 
As  Fancy  trails  her  finger 

O'er  the  index  of  the  heart. 

"Good  News  from  Home"— We  hear  it 

Welling  tremulous,  yet  clear 
And  holy  as  the  spirit 

Of  the  song  we  used  to  hear — 


94  "FRIDAY  AFTERNOON" 

"Good  news  for  me" — (A  throbbing 

And  an  aching  melody) — 
"Has  come  across  the" — (sobbing, 

Yea,  and  salty)  "dark  blue  sea!" 

Or  the  psean  "Scotland's  burning !" 

With  its  mighty  surge  and  swell 
Of  chorus,  still  returning 

To  its  universal  yell — 
Till  we're  almost  glad  to  drop  to 

Something  sad  and  full  of  pain— 
And  "Skip  verse  three,"  and  stop,  too, 

Ere  our  hearts  are  broke  again. 

Then  "the  big  girls' "  compositions, 
With  their  doubt,  and  hope,  and  glow 

Of  heart  and  face, — conditions 
Of  "the  big  boys" — even  so, — 

When  themes  of  "Spring,"  and  "Summer" 
And  of  "Fall,"  and  "Winter-time" 

Droop  our  heads  and  hold  us  dumber 

Than  the  sleigh-bell's  fancied  chime. 

Elocutionary  science — 

(Still  in  changeless  infancy!) — 
With  its  "Cataline's  Defiance," 

And  "The  Banner  of  the  Free": 
Or,  lured  from  Grandma's  attic, 

A  ramshackle  "rocker"  there, 
Adds  a  skreek  of  the  dramatic 

To  the  poet's  "Old  Arm-Chair." 


"FRIDAY  AFTERNOON"  95 

Or  the  "Speech  of  Logan"  shifts  us 

From  the  pathos,  to  the  fire ; 
And  Tell  (with  Gessler)  lifts  us 

Many  noble  notches  higher. — 
Till  a  youngster,  far  from  sunny, 

With  sad  eyes  of  watery  blue, 
Winds  up  with  something  "funny," 

Like  "Cock-a-doodle-do!" 

Then  a  dialogue — selected 

For  its  realistic  worth : — 
The  Cruel  Boy  detected 

With  a  turtle  turned  to  earth 
Back  downward ;  and,  in  pleading, 

The  Good  Boy — strangely  gay 
At  such  a  sad  proceeding — 

Says,  "Turn  him  over,  pray !" 

So  the  exercises  taper 

Through  gradations  of  delight 
To  the  reading  of  "The  Paper," 

Which  is  entertaining — quite! 
For  it  goes  ahead  and  mentions 

"If  a  certain  Mr.  O. 
Has  serious  intentions 

That  he  ought  to  tell  her  so." 

It  also  "Asks  permission 

To  intimate  to  'John' 
The  dubious  condition 

Of  the  ground  he's  standing  on" ; 


96  "FRIDAY  AFTERNOON" 

And,  dropping  the  suggestion 
To  "mind  what  he's  about," 

It  stuns  him  with  the  question: 
"Does  his  mother  know  he's  out?" 

And  among  the  contributions 

To  this  "Academic  Press" 
Are  "Versified  Effusions" 

By— "Our  lady  editress"— 
Which  fact  is  proudly  stated 

By  the  Chief  of  the  concern, — 
"Though  the  verse  communicated 

Bears  the  pen-name  'Fanny  Fern/ 

When  all  has  been  recited, 

And  the  teacher's  bell  is  heard, 
And  visitors,  invited, 

Have  dropped  a  kindly  word, 
A  hush  of  holy  feeling 

Falls  down  upon  us  there, 
As  though  the  day  were  kneeling, 

With  the  twilight  for  the  prayer. 

Midst  the  wealth  of  facts  and  fancies 

That  our  memories  may  recall, 
Thus  the  old  school-day  romances 

Are  the  dearest,  after  all ! — 
When  some  sweet  thought  revises 

The  half-forgotten   tune 
That  opened  "Exercises," 

On  "Friday  Afternoon." 


"JOHNSON'S  BOY" 

THE  world  is  turned  ag'in'  me, 
And  people  says,  'They  guess 
That  nothin'  else  is  in  me 

But  pure  maliciousness!" 
I  git  the  blame  for  doin' 

What  other  chaps  destroy, 
And  I'm  a-goin'  to  ruin 

Because  I'm  "Johnson's  boy." 

That  ain't  my  name — I'd  ruther 

They'd  call  me  Ike  or  Pat — 
But  they've  forgot  the  other — 

And  so  have  /,  for  that ! 
I  reckon  it's  as  handy, 

When  Nibsy  breaks  his  toy, 
Or  some  one  steals  his  candy, 

To  say  'twas  "Johnson's  boy!}} 

You  can't  git  any  water 

At  the  pump,  and  find  the  spout 
So  durn  chuck-full  o'  mortar 

That  you  have  to  bore  it  out ; 
97 


"JOHNSON'S  BOY" 

You  tackle  any  scholar 
In  Wisdom's  wise  employ, 

And  I'll  bet  you  half  a  dollar 
He'll  say  it's  "Johnson's  boy !" 

Folks  don't  know  how  I  suffer 

In  my  uncomplainin'  way — 
They  think  I'm  gittin'  tougher 

And  tougher  every  day. 
Last  Sunday  night,  when  Flinder 

Was  a-shoutin'  out  for  joy, 
And  some  one  shook  the  winder, 

He  prayed  for  "Johnson's  boy." 

I'm  tired  of  bein'  follered 

By  farmers  every  day, 
And  then  o'  bein'  collared 

For  coaxin'  hounds  away ; 
Hounds  always  plays  me  double — 

It's  a  trick  they  all  enjoy — 
To  git  me  into  trouble, 

Because  I'm  "Johnson's  boy." 

But  if  I  git  to  Heaven, 

I  hope  the  Lord'll  see 
Some  boy  has  been  perfect, 

And  lay  it  on  to  me ; 
I'll  swell  the  song  sonorous, 

And  clap  my  wings  for  joy, 
And  sail  off  on  the  chorus — 

"Hurrah  for  'Johnson's  boy!'  " 


HER  BEAUTIFUL  HANDS 

OYOUR  hands — they  are  strangely  fair ! 
Fair — for  the  jewels  that  sparkle  there, — 
Fair — for  the  witchery  of  the  spell 
That  ivory  keys  alone  can  tell ; 
But  when  their  delicate  touches   rest 
Here  in  my  own  do  I  love  them  best, 
As  I  clasp  with  eager,  acquisitive  spans 
My  glorious  treasure  of  beautiful  hands ! 

Marvelous — wonderful — beautiful  hands  ! 
They  can  coax  roses  to  bloom  in  the  strands 
Of  your  brown  tresses ;  and  ribbons  will  twine, 
Under  mysterious  touches  of  thine, 
Into  such  knots  as  entangle  the  soul 
And  fetter  the  heart  under  such  a  control 
As  only  the  strength  of  my  love  understands — 
My  passionate  love  for  your  beautiful  hands. 

As  I  remember  the  first  fair  touch 
Of  those  beautiful  hands  that  I  love  so  much, 
I  seem  to  thrill  as  I  then  was  thrilled, 
Kissing  the  glove  that  I  found  unfilled — 
When  I  met  your  gaze,  and  the  queenly  bow, 
99 


100  HER  BEAUTIFUL   HANDS 

As  you  said  to  me,  laughingly,  "Keep  it 

now!"  .  .  . 

And  dazed  and  alone  in  a  dream  I  stand, 
Kissing  this  ghost  of  your  beautiful  hand. 

When  first  I  loved,  in  the  long  ago, 
And  held  your  hand  as  I  told  you  so — 
Pressed  and  caressed  it  and  gave  it  a  kiss 
And  said  "I  could  die  for  a  hand  like  this !" 
Little  I  dreamed  love's  fullness  yet 
Had  to  ripen  when  eyes  were  wet 
And  prayers  were  vain  in  their  wild  demands 
For  one  warm  touch  of  your  beautiful  hands. 

Beautiful  Hands!— O  Beautiful  Hands! 

Could  you  reach  out  of  the  alien  lands 

Where  you  are  lingering,  and  give  me,  to-night, 

Only  a  touch — were  it  ever  so  light — 

My  heart  were  soothed,  and  my  weary  brain 

Would  lull  itself  into  rest  again ; 

For  there  is  no  solace  the  world  commands 

Like  the  caress  of  your  beautiful  hands. 


Elizabeth  Marine  Riley — the  poet's  mother 


NATURAL  PERVERSITIES 

I  AM  not  prone  to  moralize 
In  scientific  doubt 
On  certain  facts  that  Nature  tries 

To  puzzle  us  about, — 
For  I  am  no  philosopher 

Of  wise  elucidation, 
But  speak  of  things  as  they  occur, 
From  simple  observation. 

I  notice  little  things — to  wit: — 

I  never  missed  a  train 
Because  I  didn't  run  for  it; 

I  never  knew  it  rain 
That  my  umbrella  wasn't  lent, — 

Or,  when  in  my  possession, 
The  sun  but  wore,  to  all  intent, 

A  jocular  expression. 

I  never  knew  a  creditor 

To  dun  me  for  a  debt 
But  I  was  "cramped"  or  "bu'sted" ;  or 

I  never  knew  one  yet, 
101 


102  NATURAL  PERVERSITIES 

When  I  had  plenty  in  my  purse, 
To  make  the  least  invasion, — 

As  I,  accordingly  perverse, 
Have  courted  no  occasion. 

Nor  do  I  claim  to  comprehend 

What  Nature  has  in  view 
In  giving  us  the  very  friend 

To  trust  we  oughtn't  to. — 
But  so  it  is :  The  trusty  gun 

Disastrously  exploded 
Is  always  sure  to  be  the  one 

We  didn't  think  was  loaded. 

Our  moaning  is  another's  mirth, — 

And  what  is  worse  by  half, 
We  say  the  funniest  thing  on  earth 

And  never  raise  a  laugh : 
'Mid  friends  that  love  us  over  well, 

And  sparkling  jests  and  liquor, 
Our  hearts  somehow  are  liable 

To  melt  in  tears  the  quicker. 

We  reach  the  wrong  when  most  we  seek 

The  right;  in  like  effect, 
We  stay  the  strong  and  not  the  weak — 

Do  most  when  we  neglect. — 
Neglected  genius — truth  be  said — 

As  wild  and  quick  as  tinder, 
The  more  you  seek  to  help  ahead 

The  more  you  seem  to  hinder. 


NATURAL  PERVERSITIES  103 

I've  known  the  least  the  greatest,  too — 

And,  on  the  selfsame  plan, 
The  biggest  fool  I  ever  knew 

Was  quite  a  little  man: 
We  find  we  ought,  and  then  we  won't — 

We  prove  a  thing,  then  doubt  it, — 
Know  everything  but  when  we  don't 

Know  anything  about  it. 


THE  SILENT  VICTORS 
MAY  30,  1878 

Dying  for  victory,  cheer  on  cheer 
Thundered  on  his  eager  ear. 

— CHARLES  L.  HOLSTEIN. 


DEEP,  tender,  firm  and  true,  the  Nation's  heart 
Throbs  for  her  gallant  heroes  passed  away, 
Who  in  grim  Battle's  drama  played  their  part, 
And  slumber  here  to-day. — 

Warm  hearts  that  beat  their  lives  out  at  the  shrine 
Of  Freedom,  while  our  country  held  its  breath 

As  brave  battalions  wheeled  themselves  in  line 
And  marched  upon  their  death : 

When   Freedom's    Flag,    its   natal   wounds    scarce 
healed, 

Was  torn  from  peaceful  winds  and  flung  again 
To  shudder  in  the  storm  of  battle-field — 

The  elements  of  men, — 

When  every  star  that  glittered  was  a  mark 
For  Treason's  ball,  and  every  rippling  bar 

Of  red  and  white  was  sullied  with  the  dark 
And  purple  stain  of  war: 
104 


THE   SILENT   VICTORS  105 

When  angry  guns,  like  famished  beasts  of  prey, 
Were  howling  o'er  their  gory  feast  of  lives, 

And  sending  dismal  echoes  far  away 
To  mothers,  maids,  and  wives: — 

The  mother,  kneeling  in  the  empty  night, 
With  pleading  hands  uplifted  for  the  son 

Who,  even  as  she  prayed,  had  fought  the  fight — 
The  victory  had  won : 

The  wife,  with  trembling  hand  that  wrote  to  say 
The  babe  was  waiting  for  the  sire's  caress — 

The  letter  meeting  that  upon  the  way, — 
The  babe  was  fatherless : 

The  maiden,  with  her  lips,  in  fancy,  pressed 
Against  the  brow  once  dewy  with  her  breath, 

Now  lying  numb,  unknown,  and  uncaressed 
Save  by  the  dews  of  death. 

ii 

What  meed  of  tribute  can  the  poet  pay 
The  Soldier,  but  to  trail  the  ivy-vine 

Of  idle  rhyme  above  his  grave  to-day 
In  epitaph  design? — 

Or  wreathe  with  laurel-words  the  icy  brows 
That  ache  no  longer  with  a  dream  of  fame, 

But,  pillowed  lowly  in  the  narrow  house, 
Renowned  beyond  the  name. 


106  THE   SILENT   VICTORS 

The  dewy  tear-drops  of  the  night  may  fall, 
And  tender  morning  with  her  shining  hand 

May  brush  them  from  the  grasses  green  and  tall 
That  undulate  the  land. — 

Yet  song  of  Peace  nor  din  of  toil  and  thrift, 
Nor  chanted  honors,  with  the  flowers  we  heap, 

Can  yield  us  hope  the  Hero's  head  to  lift 
Out  of  its  dreamless  sleep: 

The  dear  old  Flag,  whose  faintest  flutter  flies 
A   stirring  echo  through   each   patriot  breast, 

Can  never  coax  to  life  the  folded  eyes 
That  saw  its  wrongs  redressed — 

That  watched  it  waver  when  the  fight  was  hot, 
And  blazed  with  newer  courage  to  its  aid, 

Regardless  of  the  shower  of  shell  and  shot 
Through  which  the  charge  was  made; — 

And  when,  at  last,  they  saw  it  plume  its  wings, 
Like  some  proud  bird  in  stormy  element, 

And  soar  untrammeled  on  its  wanderings, 
They  closed  in  death,  content. 


in 

O  Mother,  you  who  miss  the  smiling  face 

Of  that  dear  boy  who  vanished  from  your  sight, 

And  left  you  weeping  o'er  the  vacant  place 
He  used  to  fill  at  night, — 


THE   SILENT   VICTORS  107 

Who  left  you  dazed,  bewildered,  on  a  day 
That  echoed  wild  huzzas,  and  roar  of  guns 

That  drowned  the  farewell  words  you  tried  to  say 
To  incoherent  ones; — 

Be  glad  and  proud  you  had  the  life  to  give- 
Be  comforted  through  all  the  years  to  come, — 

Your  country  has  a  longer  life  to  live, 
Your  son  a  better  home. 

0  Widow,  weeping  o'er  the  orphaned  child, 
Who  only  lifts  his  questioning  eyes  to  send 

A  keener  pang  to  grief  unreconciled, — 
Teach  him  to  comprehend 

He  had  a  father  brave  enough  to  stand 
Before  the  fire  of  Treason's  blazing  gun, 

That,  dying,  he  might  will  the  rich  old  land 
Of  Freedom  to  his  son. 

And,  Maiden,  living  on  through  lonely  years 

In  fealty  to  love's  enduring  ties, — 
With  strong  faith  gleaming  through  the  tender 
tears 

That  gather  in  your  eyes, 

Look  up!  and  own,  in  gratefulness  of  prayer, 
Submission  to  the  will  of  Heaven's  High  Host : — 

1  see  your  Angel-soldier  pacing  there, 
Expectant  at  his  post. — 


108  THE  SILENT   VICTORS 

I  see  the  rank  and  file  of  armies  vast, 
That  muster  under  one  supreme  control; 

I  hear  the  trumpet  sound  the  signal-blast — 
The  calling  of  the  roll — 

The  grand  divisions  falling  into  line 
And  forming,  under  voice  of  One  alone 

Who  gives  command,  and  joins  with  tongue  divine 
The  hymn  that  shakes  the  Throne. 

IV 

And  thus,  in  tribute  to  the  forms  that  rest 

In  their  last  camping-ground,  we  strew  the  bloom 

And  fragrance  of  the  flowers  they  loved  the  best, 
In  silence  o'er  the  tomb. 

With  reverent  hands  we  twine  the  Hero's  wreath 
And  clasp  it  tenderly  on  stake  or  stone 

That  stands  the  sentinel  for  each  beneath 
Whose  glory  is  our  own. 

While  in  the  violet  that  greets  the  sun, 
We  see  the  azure  eye  of  some  lost  boy; 

And  in  the  rose  the  ruddy  cheek  of  one 
We  kissed  in  childish  joy, — 

Recalling,  haply,  when  he  marched  away, 
He  laughed  his  loudest  though  his  eyes  were 
wet. — 

The  kiss  he  gave  his  mother's  brow  that  day 
Is  there  and  burning  yet : 


THE  SILENT   VICTORS  109 

And  through  the  storm  of  grief  around  her  tossed, 
One  ray  of  saddest  comfort  she  may  see, — 

Four  hundred  thousand  sons  like  hers  were  lost 
To  weeping  Liberty. 

But  draw  aside  the  drapery  of  gloom, 
And  let  the  sunshine  chase  the  clouds  away 

And  gild  with  brighter  glory  every  tomb 
We  decorate  to-day : 

And  in  the  holy  silence  reigning  round, 

While  prayers  of  perfume  bless  the  atmosphere, 

Where  loyal  souls  of  love  and  faith  are  found, 
Thank  God  that  Peace  is  here ! 

And  let  each  angry  impulse  that  may  start, 
Be  smothered  out  of  every  loyal  breast ; 

And,  rocked  within  the  cradle  of  the  heart, 
Let  every  sorrow  rest. 


SCRAPS 

npHERE'S  a  habit  I  have  nurtured, 

A  From  the  sentimental  time 
When  my  life  was  like  a  story, 

And  my  heart  a  happy  rhyme, — 
Of  clipping  from  the  paper, 

Or  magazine,  perhaps, 
The  idle  songs  of  dreamers, 

Which  I  treasure  as  rny  scraps. 

They  hide  among  my  letters, 

And  they  find  a  cozy  nest 
In  the  bosom  of  my  wrapper, 

And  the  pockets  of  my  vest; 
They  clamber  in  my  fingers 

Till  my  dreams  of  wealth  relapse 
In  fairer  dreams  than  Fortune's 

Though  I  find  them  only  scraps. 

Sometimes  I  find,  in  tatters 

Like  a  beggar,  form  as  fair 
As  ever  gave  to  Heaven 

The  treasure  of  a  prayer; 
And  words  all  dim  and  faded, 

And  obliterate  in  part, 
Grow  into  fadeless  meanings 

That  are  printed  on  the  heart. 
110 


SCRAPS  HI 

Sometimes  a  childish  jingle 

Flings  an  echo,  sweet  and  clear, 
And  thrills  me  as  I  listen 

To  the  laughs  I  used  to  hear ; 
And  I  catch  the  gleam  of  faces, 

And  the  glimmer  of  glad  eyes 
That  peep  at  me  expectant 

O'er  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

O  syllables  of  measure! 

Though  you  wheel  yourselves  in  line, 
And  await  the  further  order 

Of  this  eager  voice  of  mine ; 
You  are  powerless  to  follow 

O'er  the  field  my  fancy  maps, 
So  I  lead  you  back  to  silence 

Feeling  you  are  only  scraps. 


AUGUST 

A  DAY  of  torpor  in  the  sullen  heat 
Of  Summer's  passion :    In  the  sluggish 

stream 

The  panting  cattle  lave  their  lazy  feet, 
With  drowsy  eyes,  and  dream. 

Long  since  the  winds  have  died,  and  in  the  sky 
There  lives  no  cloud  to  hint  of  Nature's 
grief ; 

The  sun  glares  ever  like  an  evil  eye, 
And  withers  flower  and  leaf. 

Upon  the  gleaming  harvest-field  remote 
The  thresher  lies  deserted,  like  some  old 

Dismantled  galleon  that  hangs  afloat 
Upon  a  sea  of  gold. 

The  yearning  cry  of  some  bewildered  bird 
Above  an  empty  nest,  and  truant  boys 

Along  the  river's  shady  margin  heard — 
A  harmony  of  noise — 
112 


AUGUST  113 

A  melody  of  wrangling  voices  blent 

With  liquid  laughter,  and  with  rippling  calls 

Of  piping  lips  and  thrilling  echoes  sent 
To  mimic  waterfalls. 


And  through  the  hazy  veil  the  atmosphere 
Has  draped  about  the  gleaming  face  of  Day, 

The  sifted  glances  of  the  sun  appear 
In  splinterings  of  spray. 

The  dusty  highway,  like  a  cloud  of  dawn, 
Trails  o'er  the  hillside,  and  the  passer-by, 

A  tired  ghost  in  misty  shroud,  toils  on 
His  journey  to  the  sky. 

And  down  across  the  valley's  drooping  sweep, 
Withdrawn  to  farthest  limit  of  the  glade, 

The  forest  stands  in  silence,  drinking  deep 
Its  purple  wine  of  shade. 

The  gossamer  floats  up  on  phantom  wing; 

The  sailor-vision  voyages  the  skies 
And  carries  into  chaos  everything 

That  freights  the  weary  eyes : 

Till,  throbbing  on  and  on,  the  pulse  of  heat 
Increases — reaches — passes  fever's  height, 

And  Day  sinks  into  slumber,  cool  and  sweet, 
Within  the  arms  of  Night. 


DEAD  IN   SIGHT  OF  FAME 


DIED — Early  morning  of  September  5,  1876,  and 
in  the  gleaming  dawn  of  "name  and  fame,"  Hamil 
ton  J.  Dunbar. 

DEAD!  Dead!  Dead! 
We  thought  him  ours  alone; 
And  none  so  proud  to  see  him  tread 
The  rounds  of  fame,  and  lift  his  head 

Where  sunlight  ever  shone; 
But  now  our  aching  eyes  are  dim, 
And  look  through  tears  in  vain  for  him. 

Name !    Name !     Name ! 

It  was  his  diadem; 
Nor  ever  tarnish-taint  of  shame 
Could  dim  its  luster — like  a  flame 

Reflected  in  a  gem, 
He  wears  it  blazing  on  his  brow 
Within  trie  courts  of  Heaven  now. 
114 


DEAD   IN  SIGHT   OF  FAME  115 

Tears !     Tears !     Tears ! 

Like  dews  upon  the  leaf 
That  bursts  at  last — from  out  the  years 
The  blossom  of  a  trust  appears 

That  blooms  above  the  grief ; 
And  mother,  brother,  wife  and  child 
Will  see  it  and  be  reconciled. 


IN  THE  DARK 


OIN  the  depths  of  midnight 
What  fancies  haunt  the  brain  ! 
When  even  the  sigh  of  the  sleeper 
Sounds  like  a  sob  of  pain. 

A  sense  of  awe  and  of  wonder 

I  may  never  well  define, — 
For  the  thoughts  that  come  in  the  shadows 

Never  come  in  the  shine. 

The  old  clock  down  in  the  parlor 
Like  a  sleepless  mourner  grieves, 

And  the  seconds  drip  in  the  silence 
As  the  rain  drips  from  the  eaves. 

And  I  think  of  the  hands  that  signal 
The  hours  there  in  the  gloom, 

And  wonder  what  angel  watchers 

Wait  in  the  darkened  room. 

116 


IN   THE  DARK 

And  I  think  of  the  smiling  faces 
That  used  to  watch  and  wait, 

Till  the  click  of  the  clock  was  answered 
By  the  click  of  the  opening  gate. — 

They  are  not  there  now  in  the  evening- 
Morning  or  noon— not  there ; 

Yet  I  know  that  they  keep  their  vigil, 
And  wait  for  me  Somewhere. 


THE  IRON  HORSE 

NO  song  is  mine  of  Arab  steed — 
My  courser  is  of  nobler  blood, 
And  cleaner  limb  and  fleeter  speed, 

And  greater  strength  and  hardihood 
Than  ever  cantered  wild  and  free 
Across  the  plains  of  Araby. 

Go  search  the  level  desert  land 
From  Sana  on  to  Samarcand — 
Wherever  Persian  prince  has  been, 
Or  Dervish,  Sheik,  or  Bedouin, 
And  I  defy  you  there  to  point 

Me  out  a  steed  the  half  so  fine — 
From  tip  of  ear  to  pastern- joint — 

As  this  old  iron  horse  of  mine. 

You  do  not  know  what  beauty  is — 
You  do  not  know  what  gentleness 
His  answer  is  to  my  caress ! — 
Why,  look  upon  this  gait  of  his, — 
A  touch  upon  his  iron  rein — 
He  moves  with  such  a  stately  grace 
118 


THE  IRON  HORSE  119 

The  sunlight  on  his  burnished  mane 

Is  barely  shaken  in  its  place; 

And  at  a  touch  he  changes  pace, 
And,  gliding  backward,  stops  again. 

And  talk  of  mettle — Ah !  my  friend, 

Such  passion  smolders  in  his  breast 
That  when  awakened  it  will  send 

A  thrill  of  rapture  wilder  than 

E'er  palpitated  heart  of  man 

When  flaming  at  its  mightiest. 
And  there's  a  fierceness  in  his  ire — 

A  maddened  majesty  that  leaps 
Along  his  veins  in  blood  of  fire, 

Until  the  path  his  vision  sweeps 
Spins  out  behind  him  like  a  thread 

Unraveled  from  the  reel  of  time, 

As,  wheeling  on  his  course  sublime, 
The  earth  revolves  beneath  his  tread. 

Then  stretch  away,  my  gallant  steed ! 

Thy  mission  is  a  noble  one: 

Thou  bear'st  the  father  to  the  son, 
And  sweet  relief  to  bitter  need ; 
Thou  bear'st  the  stranger  to  his  friends; 

Thou  bear'st  the  pilgrim  to  the  shrine, 
And  back  again  the  prayer  he  sends 

That  God  will  prosper  me  and  mine, — 
The  star  that  on  thy  forehead  gleams 
Has  blossomed  in  our  brightest  dreams. 


120  THE  IRON  HORSE 

Then  speed  thee  on  thy  glorious  race! 
The  mother  waits  thy  ringing  pace ; 
The  father  leans  an  anxious  ear 
The  thunder  of  thy  hooves  to  hear; 
The  lover  listens,  far  away, 
To  catch  thy  keen  exultant  neigh ; 
And,  where  thy  breathings  roll  and  rise, 
The  husband  strains  his  eager  eyes, 
And  laugh  of  wife  and  baby-glee 
Ring  out  to  greet  and  welcome  thee. 
Then  stretch  away !  and  when  at  last 

The  master's  hand  shall  gently  check 
Thy  mighty  speed,  and  hold  thee  fast, 

The  world  will  pat  thee  on  the  neck. 


DEAD  LEAVES 


DAWN 

AS  though  a  gipsy  maiden  with  dim  look, 
x\    Sat  crooning  by  the  roadside  of  the  year, 

So,  Autumn,  in  thy  strangeness,  thou  art  here 
To  read  dark  fortunes  for  us  from  the  book 
Of  fate ;  thou  flingest  in  the  crinkled  brook 

The  trembling  maple's  gold,  and  frosty-clear 

Thy  mocking  laughter  thrills  the  atmosphere, 
And  drifting  on  its  current  calls  the  rook 
To  other  lands.    As  one  who  wades,  alone, 

Deep  in  the  dusk,  and  hears  the  minor  talk 
Of  distant  melody,  and  finds  the  tone, 

In  some  wierd  way  compelling  him  to  stalk 
The  paths  of  childhood  o'er, — so  I  moan, 

And  like  a  troubled  sleeper,  groping,  walk. 

DUSK 

THE  frightened  herds  of  clouds  across  the  sky 
Trample  the  sunshine  down,  and  chase  the 
day 

Into  the  dusky  forest-lands  of  gray 
And  somber  twilight.    Far,  and  faint,  and  high 
121 


122  'DEAD  'LEAVES 

The  wild  goose  trails  his  harrow,  with  a  cry 
Sad  as  the  wail  of  some  poor  castaway 
Who  sees  a  vessel  drifting  far  astray 

Of  his  last  hope,  and  lays  him  down  to  die. 

The  children,  riotous  from  school,  grow  bold 
And  quarrel  with  the  wind,  whose  angry  gust 

Plucks  off  the  summer  hat,  and  flaps  the  fold 
Of  many  a  crimson  cloak,  and  twirls  the  dust 

In  spiral  shapes  grotesque,  and  dims  the  gold 
Of  gleaming  tresses  with  the  blur  of  rust. 

NIGHT 

T^UNERAL  Darkness,  drear  and  desolate, 

±     Muffles  the  world.    The  moaning  of  the  wind 

Is  piteous  with  sobs  of  saddest  kind; 
And  laughter  is  a  phantom  at  the  gate 
Of  memory.    The  long-neglected  grate 

Within  sprouts  into  flame  and  lights  the  mind 

With  hopes  and  wishes  long  ago  refined 
To  ashes, — long  departed  friends  await 

Our  words  of  welcome:  and  our  lips  are  dumb 
And  powerless  to  greet  the  ones  that  press 

Old  kisses  there.    The  baby  beats  its  drum, 
And  fancy  marches  to  the  dear  caress 

Of  mother-arms,  and  all  the  gleeful  hum 
Of  home  intrudes  upon  our  loneliness. 


OVER  THE  EYES  OF  GLADNESS 


The  voice  of  one  hath  spoken, 
And  the  bended  reed  is  bruised — 

The  golden  bowl  is  broken, 
And  the  silver  cord  is  loosed. 


OVER  the  eyes  of  gladness 
The  lids  of  sorrow  fall, 
And  the  light  of  mirth  is  darkened 
Under  the  funeral  pall. 

The  hearts  that  throbbed  with  rapture 
In  dreams  of  the  future  years, 

Are  wakened  from  their  slumbers, 
And  their  visions  drowned  in  tears. 

Two  buds  on  the  bough  in  the  morning- 
Twin  buds  in  the  smiling  sun, 

But  the  frost  of  death  has  fallen 
And  blighted  the  bloom  of  one. 
123 


124          OVER   THE  EYES  OF  GLADNESS 

One  leaf  of  life  still  folded, 

Has  fallen  from  the  stem, 
Leaving  the  symbol  teaching 

There  still  are  two  of  them, — 

For  though — through  Time's  gradations, 
The  living  bud  may  burst, — 

The  withered  one  is  gathered, 
And  blooms  in  Heaven  first. 


ONLY  A  DREAM 

ONLY  a  dream ! 
Her  head  is  bent 
Over  the  keys  of  the  instrument, 
While  her  trembling  fingers  go  astray 
In  the  foolish  tune  she  tries  to  play. 
He  smiles  in  his  heart,  though  his  deep,  sad 

eyes 

Never  change  to  a  glad  surprise 
As  he  finds  the  answer  he  seeks  confessed 
In  glowing  features,  and  heaving  breast. 

Only  a  dream ! 

Though  the  fete  is  grand, 
And  a  hundred  hearts  at  her  command, 
She  takes  no  part,  for  her  soul  is  sick 
Of  the  Coquette's  art  and  the  Serpent's 

trick, — 

She  someway  feels  she  would  like  to  fling 
Her  sins  away  as  a  robe,  and  spring 
Up  like  a  lily  pure  and  white, 
And  bloom  alone  for  him  to-night. 
125 


126  ONLY  A   DREAM 

Only  a  dream 

That  the  fancy  weaves. 
The  lids  unfold  like  the  rose's  leaves, 
And  the  upraised  eyes  are  moist  and  mild 
As  the  prayerful  eyes  of  a  drowsy  child. 
Does  she  remember  the  spell  they  once 
Wrought  in  the  past  a  few  short  months? 
Haply  not — yet  her  lover's  eyes 
Never  change  to  the  glad  surprise. 

Only  a  dream ! 

He  winds  her  form 
-  Close  in  the  coil  of  his  curving  arm, 
And  whirls  her  away  in  a  gust  of  sound 
As  wild  and  sweet  as  the  poets  found 
In  the  paradise  where  the  silken  tent 
Of  the  Persian  blooms  in  the  Orient, — 
While  ever  the  chords  of  the  music  seem 
Whispering  sadly, — "Only  a  dream!" 


OUR  LITTLE  GIRL 

HER  heart  knew  naught  of  sorrow, 
Nor  the  vaguest  taint  of  sin — 
'Twas  an  ever-blooming  blossom 

Of  the  purity  within : 
And  her  hands  knew  only  touches 

Of  the  mother's  gentle  care, 
And  the  kisses  and  caresses 

Through  the  interludes  of  prayer. 

Her  baby-feet  had  journeyed 

Such  a  little  distance  here, 
They  could  have  found  no  briers 

In  the  path  to  interfere ; 
The  little  cross  she  carried 

Could  not  weary  her,  we  know, 
For  it  lay  as  lightly  on  her 

As  a  shadow  on  the  snow. 

And  yet  the  way  before  us — 

O  how  empty  now  and  drear ! — 
How  ev'n  the  dews  of  roses 

Seem  as  dripping  tears  for  her! 
And  the  song-birds  all  seem  crying, 

As  the  winds  cry  and  the  rain, 
All  sobbingly, — "We  want — we  want 

Our  little  girl  again!" 
127 


THE  FUNNY  LITTLE  FELLOW 

TWAS  a  Funny  Little  Fellow 
Of  the  very  purest  type, 
For  he  had  a  heart  as  mellow 

As  an  apple  over  ripe; 
And  the  brightest  little  twinkle 

When  a  funny  thing  occurred, 
And  the  lightest  little  tinkle 
Of  a  laugh  you  ever  heard ! 

His  smile  was  like  the  glitter 

Of  the  sun  in  tropic  lands, 
And  his  talk  a  sweeter  twitter 

Than  the  swallow  understands ; 
Hear  him  sing — and  tell  a  story — 

Snap  a  joke — ignite  a  pun, — 
'Twas  a  capture — rapture — glory, 

An  explosion — all  in  one! 
128 


THE   FUNNY  LITTLE  FELLOW  129 

Though  he  hadn't  any  money — 

That  condiment  which  tends 
To  make  a  fellow  "honey" 

For  the  palate  of  his  friends ; — 
Sweet  simples  he  compounded — 

Sovereign  antidotes  for  sin 
Or  taint, — a  faith  unbounded 

That  his  friends  were  genuine. 

He  wasn't  honored,  maybe — 

For  his  songs  of  praise  were  slim, — 
Yet  I  never  knew  a  baby 

That  wouldn't  crow  for  him; 
I  never  knew  a  mother 

But  urged  a  kindly  claim 
Upon  him  as  a  brother, 

At  the  mention  of  his  name. 

The  sick  have  ceased  their  sighing, 

And  have  even  found  the  grace 
Of  a  smile  when  they  were  dying 

As  they  looked  upon  his  face; 
And  I've  seen  his  eyes  of  laughter 

Melt  in  tears  that  only  ran 
As  though,  swift-dancing  after, 

Came  the  Funny  Little  Man. 

He  laughed  away  the  sorrow 

And  he  laughed  away  the  gloom 

We  are  all  so  prone  to  borrow 
From  the  darkness  of  the  tomb; 


130  THE   FUNNY   LITTLE   FELLOW. 

And  he  laughed  across  the  ocean 
Of  a  happy  life,  and  passed, 

With  a  laugh  of  glad  emotion, 
Into  Paradise  at  last. 

And  I  think  the  Angels  knew  him, 

And  had  gathered  to  await 
His  coming,  and  run  to  him 

Through  the  widely  opened  Gate, 
With  their  faces  gleaming  sunny 

For  his  laughter-loving  sake, 
And  thinking,  "What  a  funny 

Little  Angel  he  will  make!" 


SONG  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR 

I  HEARD  the  bells  at  midnight 
Ring  in  the  dawning  year ; 
And  above  the  clanging  chorus 
Of  the  song,  I  seemed  to  hear 
A  choir  of  mystic  voices 

Flinging  echoes,  ringing  clear, 
From  a  band  of  angels  winging 
Through  the  haunted  atmosphere: 

"Ring  out  the  shame  and  sorrow, 

And  the  misery  and  sin, 
That  the  dawning  of  the  morrow 
May  in  peace  be  ushered  in." 

And  I  thought  of  all  the  trials 
The  departed  years  had  cost, 
And  the  blooming  hopes  and  pleasures 

That  are  withered  now  and  lost ; 
And  with  joy  I  drank  the  music 
Stealing  o'er  the  feeling  there 
As  the  spirit  song  came  pealing 
On  the  silence  everywhere : 

"Ring  out  the  shame  and  sorrow, 

And  the  misery  and  sin, 
That  the  dawning  of  the  morrow 
May  in  peace  be  ushered  in." 
131 


132  SONG   OF   THE   NEW    YEAR 

And  I  listened  as  a  lover 

To  an  utterance  that  flows 
In  syllables  like  dewdrops 

From  the  red  lips  of  a  rose, 
Till  the  anthem,  fainter  growing, 

Climbing  higher,  chiming  on 
Up  the  rounds  of  happy  rhyming, 
Slowly  vanished  in  the  dawn : 

"Ring  out  the  shame  and  sorrow, 

And  the  misery  and  sin, 
That  the  dawning  of  the  morrow 
May  in  peace  be  ushered  in." 

Then  I  raised  my  eyes  to  Heaven, 

And  with  trembling  lips  I  pled 
For  a  blessing  for  the  living 

And  a  pardon  for  the  dead ; 
And  like  a  ghost  of  music 

Slowly  whispered — lowly  sung — 
Came  the  echo  pure  and  holy 
In  the  happy  angel  tongue : 

"Ring  out  the  shame  and  sorrow, 

And  the  misery  and  sin, 
And  the  dawn  of  every  morrow 
Will  in  peace  be  ushered  in." 


A  LETTER  TO  A  FRIEND 

THE  past  is  like  a  story 
I  have  listened  to  in  dreams 
That  vanished  in  the  glory 

Of  the  Morning's  early  gleams; 
And — at  my  shadow  glancing — 

I  feel  a  loss  of  strength, 
As  the  Day  of  Life  advancing 
Leaves  it  shorn  of  half  its  length. 

But  it's  all  in  vain  to  worry 

At  the  rapid  race  of  Time — 
And  he  flies  in  such  a  flurry 

When  I  trip  him  with  a  rhyme, 
I'll  bother  him  no  longer 

Than  to  thank  you  for  the  thought 
That  "my  fame  is  growing  stronger 

As  you  really  think  it  ought." 

And  though  I  fall  below  it, 

I  might  know  as  much  of  mirth 
To  live  and  die  a  poet 

Of  unacknowledged  worth ; 
For  Fame  is  but  a  vagrant — 

Though  a  loyal  one  and  brave, 
And  his  laurels  ne'er  so  fragrant 

As  when  scattered  o'er  the  grave. 
133 


LINES  FOR  AN  ALBUM 

I  WOULD  not  trace  the  hackneyed  phrase 
Of  shallow  words  and  empty  praise, 
And  prate  of  "peace"  till  one  might  think 
My  foolish  pen  was  drunk  with  ink. 
Nor  will  I  here  the  wish  express 
Of  "lasting  love  and  happiness," 
And  "cloudless  skies" — for  after  all 
"Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall." 
— No.     Keep  the  empty  page  below, 
In  my  remembrance,  white  as  snow — 
Nor  sigh  to  know  the  secret  prayer 
My  spirit  hand  has  written  there. 


134 


TO  ANNIE 

WHEN  the  lids  of  dusk  are  falling 
O'er  the  dreamy  eyes  of  day, 
And  the  whippoorwills  are  calling, 

And  the  lesson  laid  away, — 
May  Mem'ry  soft  and  tender 

As  the  prelude  of  the  night, 
Bend  over  you  and  render 
As  tranquil  a  delight. 


135 


FAME 


ONCE,  in  a  dream,  I  saw  a  man 
With  haggard  face  and  tangled  hair, 
And  eyes  that  nursed  as  wild  a  care 

As  gaunt   Starvation  ever  can ; 

And  in  his  hand  he  held  a  wand 

Whose  magic  touch  gave  life  and  thought 
Unto  a  form  his  fancy  wrought 

And  robed  with  coloring  so  grand, 
It  seemed  the  reflex  of  some  child 
Of  Heaven,  fair  and  undefiled — 
A  face  of  purity  and  love — 
To  woo  him  into  worlds  above : 

And  as  I  gazed  with  dazzled  eyes, 
A  gleaming  smile  lit  up  his  lips 
As  his  bright  soul  from  its  eclipse 

Went  flashing  into  Paradise. 

Then  tardy  Fame  came  through  the  door 

And  found  a  picture — nothing  more. 


II 


And  once  I  saw  a  man,  alone, 
In  abject  poverty,  with  hand 

Uplifted  o'er  a  block  of  stone 

That  took  a  shape  at  his  command 

And  smiled  upon  him,  fair  and  good — 

A  perfect  work  of  womanhood, 
136 


FAME  137 

Save  that  the  eyes  might  never  weep, 
Nor  weary  hands  be  crossed  in  sleep, 
Nor  hair  that  fell  from  crown  to  wrist, 
Be  brushed  away,  caressed  and  kissed. 
And  as  in  awe  I  gazed  on  her, 
I  saw  the  sculptor's  chisel  fall — 
I  saw  him  sink,  without  a  moan, 
Sink  lifeless  at  the  feet  of  stone, 
And  lie  there  like  a  worshiper. 
Fame  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  hall, 
And  found  a  statue — that  was  all. 


Ill 


And  once  I  saw  a  man  who  drew 
A  gloom  about  him  like  a  cloak, 

And  wandered  aimlessly.     The  few 
Who  spoke  of  him  at  all,  but  spoke 

Disparagingly  of  a  mind 

The  Fates  had  faultily  designed: 

Too  indolent  for  modern  times — 
Too  fanciful,  and  full  of  whims — 

For,  talking  to  himself  in  rhymes, 
And  scrawling  never-heard-of  hymns, 

The  idle  life  to  which  he  clung 

Was  worthless  as  the  songs  he  sung ! 

I  saw  him,  in  my  vision,  filled 
With  rapture  o'er  a  spray  of  bloom 
The  wind  threw  in  his  lonely  room; 

And  of  the  sweet  perfume  it  spilled 

He  drank  to  drunkenness,  and  flung 


138  FAME 

His  long  hair  back,  and  laughed  and  sung 

And  clapped  his  hands  as  children  do 

At  fairy  tales  they  listen  to, 

While  from  his  flying  quill  there  dripped 

Such  music  on  his  manuscript 

That  he  who  listens  to  the  words 

May  close  his  eyes  and  dream  the  birds 

Are  twittering  on  every  hand 

A  language  he  can  understand. 

He  journeyed  on  through  life,  unknown, 

Without  one  friend  to  call  his  own; 

He  tired.    No  kindly  hand  to  press 

The  cooling  touch  of  tenderness 

Upon  his  burning  brow,  nor  lift 

To  his  parched  lips  God's  freest  gift — 

No  sympathetic  sob  or  sigh 

Of  trembling  lips — no  sorrowing  eye 

Looked  out  through  tears  to  see  him  die. 

And  Fame  her  greenest  laurels  brought 

To  crown  a  head  that  heeded  not. 

And  this  is  Fame!  A  thing,  indeed, 
That  only  comes  when  least  the  need : 
The  wisest  minds  of  every  age 
The  book  of  life  from  page  to  page 
Have  searched  in  vain ;  each  lesson  conned 
Will  promise  it  the  page  beyond — 
Until  the  last,  when  dusk  of  night 
Falls  over  it,  and  reason's  light 
Is  smothered  by  that  unknown  friend 
Who  signs  his  now,  de  plume,  The  End. 


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JNO.  C.  NEW  *  SON,  P*O! 


THE    INDIANAPOLIS   JOURNA 


INDIANAPOLIS,  IND 


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AN  EMPTY  NEST 

I  FIND  an  old  deserted  nest, 
Half-hidden  in  the  underbrush: 
A  withered  leaf,  in  phantom  jest, 

Has  nestled  in  it  like  a  thrush 
With  weary,  palpitating  breast. 

I  muse  as  one  in  sad  surprise 

Who  seeks  his  childhood's  home  once  more, 
And  finds  it  in  a  strange  disguise 

Of  vacant  rooms  and  naked  floor, 
With  sudden  tear-drops  in  his  eyes. 

An  empty  nest !    It  used  to  bear 
A  happy  burden,  when  the  breeze 

Of  summer  rocked  it,  and  a  pair 
Of  merry  tattlers  told  the  trees 

What  treasures  they  had  hidden  there. 

But  Fancy,  flitting  through  the  gleams 
Of  youth's  sunshiny  atmosphere, 

Has  fallen  in  the  past,  and  seems, 
Like  this  poor  leaflet  nestled  here,— 

A  phantom  guest  of  empty  dreams. 
139 


MY  FATHER'S  HALLS 

MY  father's  halls,  so  rich  and  rare, 
Are  desolate  and  bleak  and  bare ; 
My  father's  heart  and  halls  are  one, 
Since  I,  their  life  and  light,  am  gone. 

O,  valiant  knight,  with  hand  of  steel 
And  heart  of  gold,  hear  my  appeal: 
Release  me  from  the  spoiler's  charms, 
And  bear  me  to  my  father's  arms. 


140 


THE  HARP  OF  THE  MINSTREL 

THE  harp  of  the  minstrel  has  never  a  tone 
As  sad  as  the  song  in  his  bosom  to-night, 
For  the  magical  touch  of  his  fingers  alone 

Can  not  waken  the  echoes  that  breathe  it  aright ; 
But  oh !  as  the  smile  of  the  moon  may  impart 

A  sorrow  to  one  in  an  alien  clime, 
Let  the  light  of  the  melody  fall  on  the  heart, 
And  cadence  his  grief  into  musical  rhyme. 

The  faces  have  faded,  the  eyes  have  grown  dim 

That  once  were  his  passionate  love  and  his  pride ; 
And  alas !  all  the  smiles  that  once  blossomed  for  him 

Have  fallen  away  as  the  flowers  have  died. 
The  hands  that  entwined  him  the  laureate's  wreath 

And  crowned  him  with  fame  in  the  long,  long  ago, 
Like  the  laurels  are  withered  and  folded  beneath 

The  grass  and  the  stubble — the  frost  and  the 
snow. 

Then  sigK,  if  thou  wilt,  as  the  whispering  strings 
Strive  ever  in  vain  for  the  utterance  clear, 

And  think  of  the  sorrowful  spirit  that  sings, 
And  jewel  the  song  with  the  gem  of  a  tear. 
141 


142  THE  HARP   OF   THE  MINSTREL 

For  the  harp  of  the  minstrel  has  never  a  tone 
As  sad  as  the  song  in  his  bosom  to-night, 

And  the  magical  touch  of  his  fingers  alone 

Can  not  waken  the  echoes  that  breathe  it  aright. 


HONEY  DRIPPING  FROM  THE  COMB 

HOW  slight  a  thing  may  set  one's  fancy 
drifting 

Upon  the  dead  sea  of  the  Past ! — A  view — 
Sometimes  an  odor — or  a  rooster  lifting 
A  far-off  <(0oh!  ooh-ooh!" 

And  suddenly  we  find  ourselves  astray 

In  some  wood's-pasture  of  the  Long  Ago — 
Or  idly  dream  again  upon  a  day 
Of  rest  we  used  to  know. 

I  bit  an  apple  but  a  moment  since — 

A  wilted  apple  that  the  worm  had  spurned, — 
Yet  hidden  in  the  taste  were  happy  hints 
Of  good  old  days  returned. — 

And  so  my  heart,  like  some  enraptured  lute, 

Tinkles  a  tune  so  tender  and  complete, 
God's  blessing  must  be  resting  on  the  fruit — • 
So  bitter,  yet  so  sweet! 
143 


JOHN  WALSH 

A  STRANGE  life— strangely  passed ! 
/JL    We  may  not  read  the  soul 
When  God  has  folded  up  the  scroll 

In  death  at  last. 

We  may  not — dare  not  say  of  one 
Whose  task  of  life  as  well  was  done 
As  he  could  do  it,— "This  is  lost, 
And  prayers  may  never  pay  the  cost." 

Who  listens  to  the  song 

That  sings  within  the  breast, 

Should    ever  hear  the  good  expressed 

Above  the  wrong. 
And  he  who  leans  an  eager  ear 
To  catch  the  discord,  he  will  hear 
The  echoes  of  his  own  weak  heart 
Beat  out  the  most  discordant  part. 

Whose  tender  heart  could  build 
Affection's  bower  above 
A  heart  where  baby  nests  of  love 
Were  ever  filled, — 
144 


JOHN   WALSH  145 

With  upward  growth  may  reach  and  twine 
About  the  children,  grown  divine, 
That  once  were  his  a  time  so  brief 
His  very  joy  was  more  than  grief. 

O  Sorrow— "Peace,  be  still !" 

God  reads  the  riddle  right  ; 

And  we  who  grope  in  constant  night 

But  serve  His  will ; 

And  when  sometime  the  doubt  is  gone, 
And  darkness  blossoms  into  dawn, — 
"God  keeps  the  good,"  we  then  will  say : 
"  'Tis  but  the  dross  He  throws  away." 


ORLIE  WILDE 

A  GODDESS,  with  a  siren's  grace,-— 
£\     A  sun-haired  girl  on  a  craggy  place 
Above  a  bay  where  fish-boats  lay 
Drifting  about  like  birds  of  prey. 

Wrought  was  she  of  a  painter's  dream, — 

Wise  only  as  are  artists  wise, 

My  artist-friend,  Rolf  Herschkelhiem, 

With  deep  sad  eyes  of  oversize, 

And  face  of  melancholy  guise. 

I  pressed  him  that  he  tell  to  me 

This  masterpiece's  history. 

He  turned — returned — and  thus  beguiled 

Me  with  the  tale  of  Orlie  Wilde  :— 

"We  artists  live  ideally : 
We  breed  our  firmest  facts  of  air ; 
We  make  our  own  reality — 
We  dream  a  thing  and  it  is  so. 
The  fairest  scenes  we  ever  see 
Are  mirages  of  memory ; 
146 


ORLIE    WILDE  147 

The  sweetest  thoughts  we  ever  know 
We  plagiarize  from  Long  Ago : 
And  as  the  girl  on  canvas  there 
Is  marvelously  rare  and  fair, 
'Tis  only  inasmuch  as  she 
Is  dumb  and  may  not  speak  to  me !" 
He  tapped  me  with  his  mahlstick — then 
The  picture, — and  went  on  again : 

"Orlie  Wilde,  the  fisher's  child— 
I  see  her  yet,  as  fair  and  mild 
As  ever  nursling  summer  day 
Dreamed  on  the  bosom  of  the  bay : 
For  I  was  twenty  then,  and  went 
Alone  and  long-haired — all  content 
With  promises  of  sounding  name 
And  fantasies  of  future  fame, 
And  thoughts  that  now  my  mind  discards 
As  editor  a  fledgling  bard's. 

"At  evening  once  I  chanced  to  go, 
With  pencil  and  portfolio, 
Adown  the  street  of  silver  sand 
That  winds  beneath  this  craggy  land, 
To  make  a  sketch  of  some  old  scurf 
Of  driftage,  nosing  through  the  surf 
A  splintered  mast,  with  knarl  and  strand 
Of  rigging-rope  and  tattered  threads 
Of  flag  and  streamer  and  of  sail 
That  fluttered  idly  in  the  gale 


148  ORLIE    WILDE 

Or  whipped  themselves  to  sadder  shreds. 

The  while  I  wrought,  half  listlessly, 

On  my  dismantled  subject,  came 

A  sea-bird,  settling  on  the  same 

With  plaintive  moan,  as  though  that  he 

Had  lost  his  mate  upon  the  sea ; 

And — with  my  melancholy  trend — 

It  brought  dim  dreams  half  understood — 

It  wrought  upon  my  morbid  mood, — 

I  thought  of  my  own  voyagings 

That  had  no  end — that  have  no  end. — 

And,  like  the  sea-bird,  I  made  moan 

That  I  was  loveless  and  alone. 

And  when  at  last  with  weary  wings 

It  went  upon  its  wanderings, 

With  upturned  face  I  watched  its  flight 

Until  this  picture  met  my  sight: 

A  goddess,  with  a  siren's  grace, — 

A  sun-haired  girl  on  a  craggy  place 

Above  a  bay  where  fish-boats  lay 

Drifting  about  like  birds  of  prey. 

"In  airy  poise  she,  gazing,  stood 
A  matchless  form  of  womanhood, 
That  brought  a  thought  that  if  for  me 
Such  eyes  had  sought  across  the  sea, 
I  could  have  swum  the  widest  tide 
That  ever  mariner  defied, 
And,  at  the  shore,  could  on  have  gone 
To  that  high  crag  she  stood  upon, 


ORLIE   WILDE  149 

To  there  entreat  and  say,  'My  Sweet, 
Behold  thy  servant  at  thy  feet.' 
And  to  my  soul  I  said :  'Above, 
There  stands  the  idol  of  thy  love !' 

"In  this  rapt,  awed,  ecstatic  state 
I  gazed — till  lo!  I  was  aware 
A  fisherman  had  joined  her  there — 
A  weary  man,  with  halting  gait, 
Who  toiled  beneath  a  basket's  weight: 
Her  father,  as  I  guessed,  for  she 
Had  run  to  meet  him  gleefully 
And  ta'en  his  burden  to  herself, 
That  perched  upon  her  shoulder's  shelf 
So  lightly  that  she,  tripping,  neared 
A  jutting  crag  and  disappeared ; 
But  she  left  the  echo  of  a  song 
That  thrills  me  yet,  and  will  as  long 
As  I  have  being !  .  .  . 

.  .  .  "Evenings  came 

And  went, — but  each  the  same — the  same : 
She  watched  above,  and  even  so 
I  stood  there  watching  from  below ; 
Till,  grown  so  bold  at  last,  I  sung, — 
(What  matter  now  the  theme  thereof!) — 
It  brought  an  answer  from  her  tongue — 
Faint  as  the  murmur  of  a  dove, 
Yet  all  the  more  the  song  of  love.  .  .  . 


ISO  ORLIE   WILDE 

tll  turned  and  looked  upon  the  bay, 
With  palm  to  forehead — eyes  a-blur 
In  the  sea's  smile — meant  but  for  her ! — 
I  saw  the  fish-boats  far  away 
In  misty  distance,  lightly  drawn 
In  chalk-dots  on  the  horizon — 
Looked  back  at  her,  long,  wistfully, — 
And,  pushing  off  an  empty  skiff, 
I  beckoned  her  to  quit  the  cliff 
And  yield  me  her  rare  company 
Upon  a  little  pleasure-cruise. — 
She  stood,  as  loathful  to  refuse, 
To  muse  for  full  a  moment's  time, — 
Then  answered  back  in  pantomime 
'She  feared  some  danger  from  the  sea 
Were  she  discovered  thus  with  me/ 
I  motioned  then  to  ask  her  if 
I  might  not  join  her  on  the  cliff; 
And  back  again,  with  graceful  wave 
Of  lifted  arm,  she  anwer  gave 
"She  feared  some  danger  from  the  sea/ 

"Impatient,  piqued,  impetuous,  I 
Sprang  in  the  boat,  and  flung  'Good-by* 
From  pouted  mouth  with  angry  hand, 
And  madly  pulled  away  from  land 
With  lusty  stroke,  despite  that  she 
Held  out  her  hands  entreatingly : 
And  when  far  out,  with  covert  eye 


ORLIE   WILDE  151 

I  shoreward  glanced,  I  saw  her  fly 

In  reckless  haste  adown  the  crag, 

Her  hair  a-flutter  like  a  flag 

Of  gold  that  danced  across  the  strand 

In  little  mists  of  silver  sand. 

All  curious  I,  pausing,  tried 

To  fancy  what  it  all  implied, — 

When  suddenly  I  found  my  feet 

Were  wet ;  and,  underneath  the  seat 

On  which  I  sat,  I  heard  the  sound 

Of  gurgling  waters,  and  I  found 

The  boat  aleak  alarmingly.  .  .  . 

I  turned  and  looked  upon  the  sea, 

Whose  every  wave  seemed  mocking  me ; 

I  saw  the  fishers'  sails  once  more — 

In  dimmer  distance  than  before ; 

I  saw  the  sea-bird  wheeling  by, 

With  foolish  wish  that  /  could  fly : 

I  thought  of  firm  earth,  home  and  friends — 

I  thought  of  everything  that  tends 

To  drive  a  man  to  frenzy  and 

To  wholly  lose  his  own  command ; 

I  thought  of  all  my  waywardness — 

Thought  of  a  mother's  deep  distress ; 

Of  youthful  follies  yet  unpurged — 

Sins,  as  the  seas,  about  me  surged — 

Thought  of  the  printer's  ready  pen 

To-morrow  drowning  me  again  ; — 

A  million  things  without  a  name — 

I  thought  of  everything  but — Fame.  .  .  . 


152  ORLIE   WILDE 

"A  memory  yet  is  in  my  mind, 
So  keenly  clear  and  sharp-defined, 
I  picture  every  phase  and  line 
Of  life  and  death,  and  neither  mine, — 
While  some  fair  seraph,  golden-haired, 
Bends  over  me, — with  white  arms  bared, 
That  strongly  plait  themselves  about 
My  drowning  weight  and  lift  me  out — 
With  joy  too  great  for  words  to  state 
Or  tongue  to  dare  articulate ! 

"And  this  seraphic  ocean-child 
And  heroine  was  Orlie  Wilde : 
And  thus  it  was  I  came  to  hear 
Her  voice's  music  in  my  ear — 
Ay,  thus  it  was  Fate  paved  the  way 
That  I  walk  desolate  to-day !"  .  .  . 

The  artist  paused  and  bowed  his  face 

Within  his  palms  a  little  space, 

While  reverently  on  his  form 

I  bent  my  gaze  and  marked  a  storm 

That  shook  his  frame  as  wrathfully 

As  some  typhoon  of  agony, 

And  fraught  with  sobs — the  more  profound 

For  that  peculiar  laughing  sound 

We  hear  when  strong  men  weep.  ...  I  leant 

With  warmest  sympathy — I  bent 

To  stroke  with  soothing  hand  his  brow, 

He  murmuring — "  Tis  over  now ! — 


ORLIE   WILDE  153 

And  shall  I  tie  the  silken  thread 
Of  my  frail  romance?"    "Yes,"  I  said.— 
He  faintly  smiled ;  and  then,  with  brow 
In  kneading  palm,  as  one  in  dread — 
His  tasseled  cap  pushed  from  his  head; — 
"  'Her  voice's  music/  I  repeat," 
He  said, — "  'twas  sweet — O  passing  sweet ! — 
Though  she  herself,  in  tittering- 
Its  melody,  proved  not  the  thing 
Of  loveliness  my  dreams  made  meet 
For  me — there,  yearning,  at  her  feet — 
Prone  at  her  feet — a  worshiper, — 
For  lo!  she  spake  a  tongue,"  moaned  he, 
"Unknown  to  me ; — unknown  to  me 
As  mine  to  her — as  mine  to  her." 


THAT  OTHER  MAUD  MULLER 


MAUD  MULLER  worked  at  making  hay, 
And  cleared  her  forty  cents  a  day. 

Her  clothes  were  coarse,  but  her  health  was  fine, 
And  so  she  worked  in  the  sweet  sunshine 


Singing  as  glad  as  a  bird  in  May 
"Barbara  Allen"  the  livelong  day. 

She  often  glanced  at  the  far-off  town, 
And  wondered  if  eggs  were  up  or  down. 

And  the  sweet  song  died  of  a  strange  disease, 
Leaving  a  phantom  taste  of  cheese, 

And  an  appetite  and  a  nameless  ache 
For  soda-water  and  ginger  cake. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  into  view — 
Stopped  his  horse  in  the  shade  and  drew 
154 


THAT  OTHER  MAUD  MULLER  155 

His  fine-cut  out,  while  the  blushing  Maud 
Marveled  much  at  the  kind  he  "chawed." 

"He  was  dry  as  a  fish,"  he  said  with  a  wink, 
"And  kind  o'  thought  that  a  good  square  drink 

Would  brace  him  up."    So  the  cup  was  filled 
With  the  crystal  wine  that  old  spring  spilled ; 

And  she  gave  it  him  with  a  sun-browned  hand. 
"Thanks,"  said  the  Judge  in  accents  bland ; 

"A  thousand  thanks !  for  a  sweeter  draught, 

From  a  fairer  hand" — but  there  he  laughed. 

And  the  sweet  girl  stood  in  the  sun  that  day, 
And  raked  the  Judge  instead  of  the  hay. 


A  MAN  OF  MANY  PARTS 

IT  was  a  man  of  many  parts, 
Who  in  his  coffer  mind 
Had  stored  the  Classics  and  the  Arts 

And  Sciences  combined; 
The  purest  gems  of  poesy 

Came  flashing  from  his  pen — 
The  wholesome  truths  of  History 
He  gave  his  fellow  men. 

He  knew  the  stars  from  "Dog"  to  Mars ; 

And  he  could  tell  you,  too, 
Their  distances — as  though  the  cars 

Had  often  checked  him  through — 
And  time  'twould  take  to  reach  the  sun, 

Or  by  the  "Milky  Way," 
Drop  in  upon  the  moon,  or  run 

The  homeward  trip,  or  stay. 
156 


A   MAN   OF  MANY  PARTS  157 

With  Logic  at  his  fingers'  ends, 

Theology  in  mind, 
He  often  entertained  his  friends 

Until  they  died  resigned ; 
And  with  inquiring  mind  intent 

Upon  Alchemic  arts 
A  dynamite  experiment — 

A  man  of  many  parts ! 


THE  FROG 

T  T  7HO  am  I  but  the  Frog— the  Frog! 

V  V       My  realm  is  the  dark  bayou, 
And  my  throne  is  the  muddy  and  moss-grown  log 

That  the  poison-vine  clings  to — 
And  the  blacksnakes  slide  in  the  slimy  tide 

Where  the  ghost  of  the  moon  looks  blue. 

What  am  I  but  a  King — a  King! — 

For  the  royal  robes  I  wear — 
A  scepter,  too,  and  a  signet-ring, 

As  vassals  and  serfs  declare : 
And  a  voice,  god  wot,  that  is  equaled  not 

In  the  wide  world  anywhere ! 

I  can  talk  to  the  Night— the  Night  !— 

Under  her  big  black  wing 
She  tells  me  the  tale  of  the  world  outright, 

And  the  secret  of  everything ; 
For  she  knows  you  all,  from  the  time  you  crawl, 

To  the  doom  that  death  will  bring. 
158 


THE  FROG  159 

The    Storm    swoops    down,    and    he    blows — and 
blows, — 

While  I  drum  on  his  swollen  cheek, 
And  croak  in  his  angered  eye  that  glows 

With  the  lurid  lightning's  streak; 
While  the  rushes  drown  in  the  watery  frown 

That  his  bursting  passions  leak. 

And  I  can  see  through  the  sky — the  sky — 

As  clear  as  a  piece  of  glass ; 
And  I  can  tell  you  the  how  and  why 

Of  the  things  that  come  to  pass — 
And  whether  the  dead  are  there  instead, 

Or  under  the  graveyard  grass. 

To  your  Sovereign  lord  all  hail — all  hail ! — 
To  your  Prince  on  his  throne  so  grim ! 

Let  the  moon  swing  low,  and  the  high  stars  trail 
Their  heads  in  the  dust  to  him ; 

And  the  wide  world  sing :  Long  live  the  King, 
And  grace  to  his  royal  whim ! 


DEAD  SELVES 

HOW  many  of  my  selves  are  dead? 
The  ghosts  of  many  haunt  me :  Lo, 
The  baby  in  the  tiny  bed 
With  rockers  on,  is  blanketed 

And  sleeping  in  the  long  ago ; 
And  so  I  ask,  with  shaking  head, 
How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead? 

A  little  face  with  drowsy  eyes 

And  lisping  lips  comes  mistily 
From  out  the  faded  past,  and  tries 
The  prayers  a  mother  breathed  with  sighs 

Of  anxious  care  in  teaching  me ; 
But  face  and  form  and  prayers  have  fled — 
How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead  ? 

The  little  naked  feet  that  slipped 
In  truant  paths,  and  led  the  way 

Through  dead'ning  pasture-lands,  and  tripped 

O'er  tangled  poison-vines,  and  dipped 
In  streams  forbidden — where  are  they  ? 

In  vain  I  listen  for  their  tread — 

How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead  ? 
160 


DEAD   SELVES  161 

The  awkward  boy  the  teacher  caught 

Inditing  letters  filled  with  love, 
Who  was  compelled,  for  all  he  fought, 
To  read  aloud  each  tender  thought 

Of  "Sugar  Lump"  and  "Turtle  Dove." 
I  wonder  where  he  hides  his  head — 
How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead? 

The  earnest  features  of  a  youth 
With  manly  fringe  on  lip  and  chin, 

With  eager  tongue  to  tell  the  truth, 

To  offer  love  and  life,  forsooth, 
So  brave  was  he  to  woo  and  win ; 

A  prouder  man  was  never  wed — 

How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead? 

The  great,  strong  hands  so  all-inclined 
To  welcome  toil,  or  smooth  the  care 

From  mother-brows,  or  quick  to  find 

A  leisure-scrap  of  any  kind, 
To  toss  the  baby  in  the  air, 

Or  clap  at  babbling  things  it  said — 

How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead  ? 

The  pact  of  brawn  and  scheming  brain — 
Conspiring  in  the  plots  of  wealth, 

Still  delving,  till  the  lengthened  chain, 

Unwindlassed  in  the  mines  of  gain, 
Recoils  with  dregs  of  ruined  health 

And  pain  and  poverty  instead — 

How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead  ? 


162  DEAD   SELVES 

The  faltering  step,  the  faded  hair — 
Head,  heart  and  soul,  all  echoing 
With  maundering  fancies  that  declare 
That  life  and  love  were  never  there, 

Nor  ever  joy  in  anything, 
Nor  wounded  heart  that  ever  bled — 
How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead? 

So  many  of  my  selves  are  dead, 
That,  bending  here  above  the  brink 

Of  my  last  grave,  with  dizzy  head, 

I  find  my  spirit  comforted, 

For  all  the  idle  things  I  think: 

It  can  but  be  a  peaceful  bed, 

Since  all  my  other  selves  are  dead. 


A  DREAM  OF  LONG  AGO 

EING  listless  in  the  mosses 
Underneath  a  tree  that  tosses 
Flakes  of  sunshine,  and  embosses 

Its  green  shadow  with  the  snow — 
Drowsy-eyed,  I  think  in  slumber 
Born  of  fancies  without  number — 
Tangled  fancies  that  encumber 
Me  with  dreams  of  long  ago. 

Ripples  of  the  river  singing; 
And  the  water-lilies  swinging 
Bells  of  Parian,  and  ringing 

Peals  of  perfume  faint  and  fine, 
While  old  forms  and  fairy  faces 
Leap  from  out  their  hiding-places 
In  the  past,  with  glad  embraces 

Fraught  with  kisses  sweet  as  wine. 

Willows  dip  their  slender  fingers 
O'er  the  little  fisher's  stringers, 
While  he  baits  his  hook  and  lingers 

Till  the  shadows  gather  dim ; 
And  afar  off  comes  a  calling 
163 


164  A   DREAM   OF   LONG  AGO 

Like  the  sounds  of  water  falling, 
With  the  lazy  echoes  drawling 
Messages  of  haste  to  him. 

Little  naked  feet  that  tinkle 

Through  the  stubble-fields,  and  twinkle 

Down  the  winding  road,  and  sprinkle 

Little  mists  of  dusty  rain, 
While  in  pasture-lands  the  cattle 
Cease  their  grazing  with  a  rattle 
Of  the  bells  whose  clappers  tattle 

To  their  masters  down  the  lane. 

Trees  that  hold  their  tempting  treasures 
O'er  the  orchard's  hedge  embrasures, 
Furnish  their  forbidden  pleasures 

As  in  Eden  lands  of  old ; 
And  the  coming  of  the  master 
Indicates  a  like  disaster 
To  the  frightened  heart  that  faster 

Beats  pulsations  manifold. 

Puckered  lips  whose  pipings  tingle 
In  staccato  notes  that  mingle 
Musically  with  the  jingle — 

Haunted  winds  that  lightly  fan 
Mellow  twilights,  crimson-tinted 
By  the  sun,  and  picture-printed 
Like  a  book  that  sweetly  hinted 

Of  the  Nights  Arabian. 


A  DREAM  OF  LONG  AGO  165 

Porticoes  with  columns  plaited 

And  entwined  with  vines  and  freighted 

With  a  bloom  all  radiated 

With  the  light  of  moon  and  star ; 
Where  some  tender  voice  is  winging 
In  sad  flights  of  song,  and  singing 
To  the  dancing  fingers  flinging 

Dripping  from  the  sweet  guitar. 

Would  my  dreams  were  never  taken 
From  me:  that  with  faith  unshaken 
I  might  sleep  and  never  waken 

On  a  weary  world  of  woe ! 
Links  of  love  would  never  sever 
As  I  dreamed  them,  never,  never ! 
I  would  glide  along  forever 

Through  the  dreams  of  long  ago. 


CRAQUEODOOM 

THE  Crankadox  leaned  o'er  the  edge  of  the 
moon 

And  wistfully  gazed  on  the  sea 
Where  the  Gryxabodill  madly  whistled  a  tune 

To  the  air  of  "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee." 
The  quavering  shriek  of  the  Fly-up-the-creek 

Was  fitfully  wafted  afar 
To  the  Queen  of  the  Wunks  as  she  powdered  her 

cheek 
With  the  pulverized  rays  of  a  star. 

The  Gool  closed  his  ear  on  the  voice  of  the  Grig, 

And  his  heart  it  grew  heavy  as  lead 
As  he  marked  the  Baldekin  adjusting  his  wing 

On  the  opposite  side  of  his  head, 
And  the  air  it  grew  chill  as  the  Gryxabodill 

Raised  his  dank,  dripping  fins  to  the  skies, 
And  plead  with  the  Plunk  for  the  use  of  her  bill 

To  pick  the  tears  out  of  his  eyes. 

The  ghost  of  the  Zhack  flitted  b"y  in  a  trance, 
And  the  Squidjum  hid  under  a  tub 
166 


CRAQUEODOOM  167 

As  he  heard  the  loud  hooves  of  the  Hooken  ad 
vance 

With  a  rub-a-dub — dub-a-dub — dub ! 
And  the  Crankadox  cried,  as  he  lay  down  and  died, 

"My  fate  there  is  none  to  bewail," 
While  the  Queen  of  the  Wunks  drifted  over  the 

tide 
With  a  long  piece  of  crape  to  her  tail. 


JUNE 

O  QUEENLY  month  of  indolent  repose ! 
I  drink  thy  breath  in  sips  of  rare  perfume, 

As  in  thy  downy  lap  of  clover-bloom 
I  nestle  like  a  drowsy  child  and  doze 
The  lazy  hours  away.    The  zephyr  throws 

The  shifting  shuttle  of  the  Summer's  loom 

And  weaves  a  damask-work  of  gleam  and  gloom 
Before  thy  listless  feet.    The  lily  blows 
A  bugle-call  of  fragrance  o'er  the  glade ; 

And,  wheeling  into  ranks,  with  plume  and  spear, 
Thy  harvest-armies  gather  on  parade ; 

While,  faint  and  far  away,  yet  pure  and  clear, 
A  voice  calls  out  of  alien  lands  of  shade  : — 

All  hail  the  Peerless  Goddess  of  the  Year ! 


J68 


James  Whitcomb  Riley  and  his  mother 


WASH  LOWRY'S  REMINISCENCE 


3D  you're  the  poet  of  this  concern? 

I've  seed  your  name  in  print 
A  dozen  times,  but  I'll  be  dern 
I'd  V  never  V  took  the  hint 
O'  the  size  you  are  —  fur  I'd  pictured  you 

A  kind  of  a  tallish  man  — 
Dark-complected  and  sailor  too, 
And  on  the  consumpted  plan. 

'Stid  o'  that  you're  little  and  small, 

With  a  milk-and-water  face  — 
'Thout  no  snap  in  your  eyes  at  all, 

Or  nothin'  to  suit  the  case  ! 
Kind  o'  look  like  a  —  I  don't  know  — 

One  o'  these  fair-ground  chaps 
That  runs  a  thingamajig  to  blow, 

Or  a  candy-stand  perhaps. 
169 


170  WASH  LOWRY'S  REMINISCENCE 

'LI  I've  allus  thought  that  poetry 

Was  a  sort  of  a — some  disease — 
For  I  knowed  a  poet  once,  and  he 

Was  techy  and  hard  to  please, 
And  moody-like,  and  kindo'  sad 

And  didn't  seem  to  mix 
With  other  folks — like  his  health  was  bad, 

Or  his  liver  out  o'  fix. 

Used  to  teach  for  a  livelihood — 

There's  folks  in  Pipe  Crick  yit 
Remembers  him — and  he  was  good 

At  cipherin'  I'll  admit — 
And  posted  up  in  G'ography 

But  when  it  comes  to  tact, 
And  gittin'  along  with  the  school,  you  see, 

He  fizzled,  and  that's  a  fact ! 

Boarded  with  us  for  fourteen  months 

And  in  all  that  time  I'll  say 
We  never  catched  him  a  sleepin'  once 

Or  idle  a  single  day. 
But  shucks !  It  made  him  worse  and  worse 

A-writin'  rhymes  and  stuff, 
And  the  school  committee  used  to  furse 

'At  the  school  wa'n't  good  enough. 

He  wa'n't  as  strict  as  he  ought  to  been, 
And  never  was  known  to  whip, 

Or  even  to  keep  a  scholard  in 
At  work  at  his  penmanship ; 


WASH   LOWRY'S  REMINISCENCE  171 

'Stid  o'  that  he'd  learn  'em  notes, 

And  have  'em  every  day, 
Spilin'  hymns  and  a-splittin'  th'oats 

With  his  "Do-sol-fa-me-ra !" 

Tell  finally  it  was  jest  agreed 

We'd  have  to  let  him  go, 
And  we  all  felt  bad — we  did  indeed, 

When  we  come  to  tell  him  so ; 
For  I  remember,  he  turned  so  white, 

And  smiled  so  sad,  somehow, 
I  someway  felt  it  wasn't  right 

And  I'm  shore  it  wasn't  now ! 

He  hadn't  no  complaints  at  all — 

He  bid  the  school  adieu, 
And  all  o'  the  scholards  great  and  small 

Was  mighty  sorry  too ! 
And  when  he  closed  that  afternoon 

They  sung  some  lines  that  he 
Had  writ  a  purpose,  to  some  old  tune 

That  suited  the  case,  you  see. 

And  then  he  lingered  and  delayed 

And  wouldn't  go  away — 
And  shut  himself  in  his  room  and  stayed 

A-writin'  from  day  to  day ; 
And  kep'  a-gittin'  stranger  still, 

And  thinner  all  the  time, 
You  know,  as  any  feller  will 

On  nothin'  else  but  rhyme. 


172  WASH  LOWRY'S  REMINISCENCE 

He  didn't  seem  adzactly  right, 

Or  like  he  was  crossed  in  love, 
He'd  work  away  night  after  night, 

And  walk  the  floor  above ; 
We'd  hear  him  read  and  talk,  and  sing 

So  lonesome-like  and  low, 
My  woman's  cried  like  everything — 

'Way  in  the  night,  you  know. 

And  when  at  last  he  tuck  to  bed 

He'd  have  his  ink  and  pen; 
"So's  he  could  coat  the  muse"  he  said, 

"He'd  die  contented  then"; 
And  jest  before  he  past  away 

He  read  with  dyin'  gaze 
The  epitaph  that  stands  to-day 

To  show  you  where  he  lays. 

And  ever  sence  then  I've  allus  thought 

That  poetry's  some  disease, 
And  them  like  you  that's  got  it  ought 

To  watch  their  q's  and  p's ; 
And  leave  the  sweets  of  rhyme,  to  sup 

On  the  wholesome  draughts  of  toil, 
And  git  your  health  recruited  up 

By  plowin'  in  rougher  soil. 


THE  ANCIENT  PRINTERMAN 

PRINTERMAN  of  sallow  face» 
And  look  of  absent  guile, 

Is  it  the  'copy'  on  your  'case' 

That  causes  you  to  smile  ? 
Or  is  it  some  old  treasure  scrap 

You  call  from  Memory's  file? 

"I  fain  would  guess  its  mystery — 

For  often  I  can  trace 
A  fellow  dreamer's  history 

Whene'er  it  haunts  the  face  ; 
Your  fancy's  running  riot 

In  a  retrospective  race ! 

"Ah,  Printerman,  you're  straying 
Afar  from  'stick'  and  type — 

Your  heart  has  'gone  a-maying/ 
And  you  taste  old  kisses,  ripe 

Again  on  lips  that  pucker 
At  your  old  asthmatic  pipe! 
173 


174  THE  ANCIENT  PRINTERMAN 

"You  are  dreaming  of  old  pleasures 
That  have  faded  from  your  view ; 

And  the  music-burdened  measures 
Of  the  laughs  you  listen  to 

Are  now  but  angel-echoes — 
O,  have  I  spoken  true?" 

The  ancient  Printer  hinted 
With  a  motion  full  of  grace 

To  where  the  words  were  printed 
On  a  card  above  his  "case," — 

"I  am  deaf  and  dumb !"     I  left  him 
With  a  smile  upon  his  face. 


PRIOR  TO  MISS  BELLE'S  APPEARANCE 

WHAT  makes  you  come  here  fer,  Mister, 
So  much  to  our  house? — 'Say? 
Come  to  see  our  big  sister ! — 
An'  Charley  he  says  'at  you  kissed  her 
An'  he  ketched  you,  th'uther  day ! — 
Didn'  you,  Charley? — But  we  p'omised  Belle 
An'  crossed  our  heart  to  never  to  tell — 
'Cause  she  gived  us  some  o'  them-er 
Chawk'lut-drops  'at  you  bringed  to  her! 

Charley  he's  my  little  b'uther — 

An'  we  has  a-mostest  fun, 
Don't  we,  Charley? — Our  Muther, 
Whenever  we  whips  one  anuther, 

Tries  to  whip  us — an'  we  run — 
Don't  we,  Charley  ? — An'  nen,  bime-by, 
Nen  she  gives  us  cake — an'  pie — 
Don't  she,  Charley? — when  we  come  in 
An'  p'omise  never  to  do  it  ag'in ! 


175 


176  PRIOR    TO   MISS   BELLE'S  APPEARANCE 

He's  named  Charley. — I'm  Willie — 
An'  I'm  got  the  purtiest  name! 

But  Uncle  Bob  he  calls  me  "Billy"— 

Don't  he,  Charley?— 'N'  our  filly 
We  named  "  Billy,"  the  same 

1st  like  me !    An'  our  Ma  said 

'At  "Bob  puts  f oolishnuss  into  our  head !" — 

Didn'  she,  Charley? — An'  she  don't  know 

Much  about  boys! — 'Cause  Bob  said  so! 

Baby's  a  funniest  feller ! 

Nain't  no  hair  on  his  head — 
Is  they,  Charley? — It's  meller 
Wite  up  there !  An'  ef  Belle  er 

Us  ask  wuz  we  that  way,  Ma  said, — 
"Yes  ;  an'  yer  Pa's  head  wuz  soft  as  that, 
An'  it's  that  way  yet !"— An'  Pa  grabs  his  hat 
An'  says,  "Yes,  childern,  she's  right  about  Pa — 
'Cause  that's  the  reason  he  married  yer  Ma !" 

An'  our  Ma  says  'at  "Belle  couldn' 

Ketch  nothin'  at  all  but  ist  'bows'!"— 
An'  Pa  says  'at  "you're  soft  as  puddun !" — 
An'  Uncle  Bob  says  "you're  a  good-un — 

'Cause  he  can  tell  by  yer  nose !" — 
Didn'  he,  Charley?— An'  when  Belle'll  play 
In  the  poller  on  th'  pianer,  some  day, 
Bob  makes  up  funny  songs  about  you, 
Till  she  gits  mad — like  he  wants  her  to ! 


PRIOR    TO   MISS   BELLE'S  APPEARANCE,  177 

Our  sister  Fanny  she's  'leven 

Years  old!    'At's  mucher  'an  / — 
Ain't  it,  Charley?     .     .     .     I'm  seven  I— 
But  our  sister  Fanny's  in  Heaven! 

Nere's  where  you  go  ef  you  die ! — 
Don't  you,  Charley  ?— Nen  you  has  wings— 
1st  like  Fanny! — an'  purtiest  things! — 
Don't  you,  Charley  ?— An'  nen  you  can  fly— 
1st  fly—an'  everything]   .    .    .    Wisht  7'd  die ! 


WHEN  MOTHER  COMBED  MY  HAIR 

WHEN  Memory,  with  gentle  hand, 
Has  led  me  to  that  foreign  land 
Of  childhood  days,  I  long  to  be 
Again  the  boy  on  bended  knee, 
With  head  a-bow,  and  drowsy  smile 
Hid  in  a  mother's  lap  the  while, 
With  tender  touch  and  kindly  care, 
She  bends  above  and  combs  my  hair. 

Ere  threats  of  Time,  or  ghosts  of  cares 

Had  paled  it  to  the  hue  it  wears, 

Its  tangled  threads  of  amber  light 

Fell  o'er  a  forehead,  fair  and  white, 

That  only  knew  the  light  caress 

Of  loving  hands,  or  sudden  press 

Of  kisses  that  were  sifted  there 

The  times  when  mother  combed  my  hair. 

But  its  last  gleams  of  gold  have  slipped 
Away ;  and  Sorrow's  manuscript 
Is  fashioned  of  the  snowy  brow — 
So  lined  and  underscored  now 
178 


WHEN  MOTHER   COMBED  MY   HAIR       179 

That  you,  to  see  it,  scarce  would  guess 

It  e'er  had  felt  the  fond  caress 

Of  loving  lips,  or  known  the  care 

Of  those  dear  hands  that  combed  my  hair. 

I  am  so  tired!    Let  me  be 
A  moment  at  my  mother's  knee; 
One  moment — that  I  may  forget 
The  trials  waiting  for  me  yet: 
One  moment  free  from  every  pain — 
O!  Mother!     Comb  my  hair  again! 
And  I  will,  oh,  so  humbly  bow, 
For  I've  a  wife  that  combs  it  now. 


A  WRANGDILLION 

DEXERY-TETHERY!  down  in  the  dike, 
Under  the  ooze  and  the  slime, 
Nestles  the  wraith  of  a  reticent  Gryke, 

Blubbering  bubbles  of  rhyme : 
Though  the  reeds  touch  him  and  tickle  his  teeth- 

Though  the  Graigroll  and  the  Cheest 
Pluck  at  the  leaves  of  his  laureate-wreath, 
Nothing  affects  him  the  least. 

He  sinks  to  the  dregs  in  the  dead  o'  the  night, 

And  he  shuffles  the  shadows  about 
As  he  gathers  the  stars  in  a  nest  of  delight 

And  sets  there  and  hatches  them  out : 
The  Zhederrill  peers  from  his  watery  mine 

In  scorn  with  the  Will-o'-the-wisp, 
As  he  twinkles  his  eyes  in  a  whisper  of  shine 

That  ends  in  a  luminous  lisp. 
180 


A   WRANGDILLION  181 

The  Morning  is  born  like  a  baby  of  gold, 

And  it  lies  in  a  spasm  of  pink, 
And  rallies  the  Cheest  for  the  horrible  cold 

He  has  dragged  to  the  willowy  brink, 
The  Gryke  blots  his  tears  with  a  scrap  of  his 
grief, 

And  growls  at  the  wary  Graigroll 
As  he  twunkers  a  tune  on  a  Tiljicum  leaf 

And  hums  like  a  telegraph  pole. 


GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION 

FOR  the  sake  of  guilty  conscience,  and  the  heart 
that  ticks  thex  time 
Of  the  clockworks  of  my  nature,  I  desire  to  say 

that  I'm 
A  weak  and  sinful  creature,  as  regards  my  daily 

walk 

The  last  five  years  and  better.    It  ain't  worth  while 
to  talk— 

I've  been  too  mean  to  tell  it!     I've  been  so  hard, 

you  see,. 
And  full  of  pride,  and — onry — now  there's  the  word 

for  me — 

Just  onry — and  to  show  you,  I'll  give  my  history 
With  vital  points  in  question,  and  I  think  you'll  all 

agree. 

I  was  always  stiff  and  stubborn  since  I  could  recol 
lect, 

And  had  an  awful  temper,  and  never  would  reflect ; 

And  always  into  trouble — I  remember  once  at 
school 

The  teacher  tried  to  flog  me,  and  I  reversed  that 
rule. 

182 


GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION          183 

O  I  was  bad  I  tell  you !    And  it's  a  funny  move 
That  a  fellow  wild  as  I  was  could  ever  fall  in  love ; 
And  it's  a  funny  notion  that  an  animal  like  me, 
Under  a  girl's  weak  fingers  was  as  tame  as  tame 
could  be! 

But  it's  so,  and  sets  me  thinking  of  the  easy  way 
she  had 

Of  cooling  down  my  temper— though  I'd  be  fight 
ing  mad. 

"My  Lion  Queen"  I  called  her— when  a  spell  of 
mine  occurred 

She'd  come  in  a  den  of  feelings  and  quell  them 
with  a  word. 

I'll  tell  you  how  she  loved  me — and  what  her  peo 
ple  thought: 

When  I  asked  to  marry  Annie  they  said  "they  reck 
oned  not — 

That  I  cut  too  many  didoes  and  monkey-shines  to 
suit 

Their  idea  of  a  son-in-law,  and  I  could  go,  to  boot !' 

I  tell  you  that  thing  riled  me !    Why,  I  felt  my  face 

turn  white, 
And  my  teeth  shut  like  a  steel  trap,  and  the  fingers 

of  my  right 
Hand  pained  me  with  their  pressure— all  the  rest's 

a  mystery 
Till  I  heard  my  Annie  saying— "I'm  going,  too,  you 

see." 


184          GEORGE  MULLEN'S   CONFESSION 

We  were   coming  through  the  gateway,   and  she 

wavered  for  a  spell 
When  she  heard  her  mother  crying  and  her  raving 

father  yell 
That  she  wa'n't  no  child  of  his'n — like  an  actor  in 

a  play 
We  saw  at  Independence,  coming  through  the  other 

day. 

Well!  that's  the  way  we  started.     And  for  days 

and  weeks  and  months 
And  even  years  we  journeyed  on,  regretting  never 

once 

Of  starting  out  together  upon  the  path  of  life — 
A  kind  o'  sorto'  husband,  but  a  mighty  loving 

wife, — 

And  the  cutest  little  baby — little  Grace — I  see  her 

now 
A-standin'  on  the  pig-pen  as  her  mother  milked  the 

cow — 
And  I  can  hear  her  shouting — as  I  stood  unloading 

straw, — 
"I'm  ain't  as  big  as  papa,  but  I'm  biggerest'n  ma." 

Now  folks  that  never  married  don't  seem  to  under 
stand 

That  a  little  baby's  language  is  the  sweetest  ever 
planned — 


GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION  185 

Why,  I  tell  you  it's  pure  music,  and  I'll  just  go  on 

to  say 
That  I  sometimes  have  a  notion  that  the  angels  talk 

that  way! 

There's  a  chapter  in  this  story  I'd  be  happy  to  de 
stroy  ; 

I  could  burn  it  up  before  you  with  a  mighty  sight 
of  joy; 

But  I'll  go  ahead  and  give  it — not  in  detail,  no,  my 
friend, 

For  it  takes  five  years  of  reading  before  you  find 
the  end. 

My  Annie's  folks  relented — at  least,  in  some  de 
gree; 

They  sent  one  time  for  Annie,  but  they  didn't  send 
for  me. 

The  old  man  wrote  the  message  with  a  heart  as  hot 
and  dry 

As  a  furnace — "Annie  Mullen,  come  and  see  your 
mother  die." 

I  saw  the  slur  intended — why  I  fancied  I  could  see 
The  old  man  shoot  the  insult  like  a  poison  dart  at 

me; 

And  in  that  heat  of  passion  I  swore  an  inward  oath 
That  if  Annie  pleased  her  father  she  could  never 

please  us  both. 


186  GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION 

I  watched  her — dark  and  sullen — as  she  hurried  on 

her  shawl; 
I  watched  her — calm  and  cruel,  though  I  saw  her 

tear-drops  fall; 
I  watched  her — cold  and  heartless,  though  I  heard 

her  moaning,  call 
For  mercy  from  high  Heaven — and  I  smiled 

throughout  it  all. 

Why  even  when  she  kissed  me,  and  her  tears  were 

on  my  brow, 
As  she  murmured,  "George,  forgive  me — I  must  go 

to  mother  now !" 
Such  hate  there  was  within  me  that  I  answered  not 

at  all, 
But  calm,  and  cold  and  cruel,  I  smiled  throughout 

it  all. 

But  a  shadow  in  the  doorway  caught  my  eye,  and 
then  the  face 

Full  of  innocence  and  sunshine  of  little  baby  Grace. 

And  I  snatched  her  up  and  kissed  her,  and  I  soft 
ened  through  and  through 

For  a  minute  when  she  told  me  "I  must  kiss  her 


I  remember,  at  the  starting,  how  I  tried  to  freeze 

again 
As  I  watched  them  slowly  driving  down  the  little 

crooked  lane — 


GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION  187 

When  Annie  shouted  something  that  ended  in  a 

cry, 
And  how  I  tried  to  whistle  and  it  fizzled  in  a  sigh. 


I  remember  running  after,  with  a  glimmer  in  my 

sight- 
Pretending  I'd  discovered  that  the  traces  wasn't 

right ; 
And  the  last  that  I  remember,  as  they  disappeared 

from  view, 

Was  little  Grace  a-calling,  "I  see  papa!     Howdy- 
do!" 

And  left  alone  to  ponder,  I  again  took  up  my  hate 
For  the  old  man  who  would  chuckle  that  I  was 

desolate ; 
And  I  mouthed  my  wrongs  in  mutters  till  my  pride 

called  up  the  pain 
His  last  insult  had  given  me — until  I  smiled  again 

Till  the  wild  beast  in  my  nature  was  raging  in  the 

den — 
With  no  one  now  to  quell  it,  and  I  wrote  a  letter 

then 
Full  of  hissing  things,  and  heated  with  so  hot  a  heat 

of  hate 
That  my  pen  flashed  out  black  lightning  at  a  most 

terrific  rate. 


188  GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION 

I  wrote  that  "she  had  wronged  me  when  she  went 

away  from  me — 
Though  to  see  her  dying  mother  'twas  her  father's 

victory, 
And  a  woman  that  could  waver  when  her  husband's 

pride  was  rent 
Was  no  longer  worthy  of  it."  And  I  shut  the  house 

and  went. 

To  tell  of  my  long  exile  would  be  of  little  good — 

Though  I  couldn't  half-way  tell  it,  and  I  wouldn't 
if  I  could! 

I  could  tell  of  California — of  a  wild  and  vicious 
life; 

Of  trackless  plains,  and  mountains,  and  the  In 
dian's  scalping-knife. 

I  could  tell  of  gloomy  forests  howling  wild  with 

threats  of  death; 
I  could  tell  of  fiery  deserts  that  have  scorched  me 

with  their  breath ; 
I  could  tell  of  wretched  outcasts  by  the  hundreds, 

great  and  small, 
And  could  claim  the  nasty  honor  of  the  greatest  of 

them  all. 

I  could  tell  of  toil  and  hardship;  and  of  sickness 

and  disease, 
And  hollow-eyed  starvation,  but  I  tell  you,  friend, 

that  these 


GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION  189 

Are  trifles  in  comparison  with  what  a  fellow  feels 
With  that  bloodhound,  Remorsefulness,  forever  at 
his  heels. 

I  remember — worn  and  weary  of  the  long,  long 
years  of  care, 

When  the  frost  of  time  was  making  early  harvest  of 
my  hair — 

I  remember,  wrecked  and  hopeless  of  a  rest  be 
neath  the  sky, 

My  resolve  to  quit  the  country,  and  to  seek  the 
East,  and  die. 

I  remember  my  long  journey,  like  a  dull,  oppres 
sive  dream, 

Across  the  empty  prairies  till  I  caught  the  distant 
gleam 

Of  a  city  in  the  beauty  of  its  broad  and  shining 
stream 

On  whose  bosom,  flocked  together,  float  the  mighty 
swans  of  steam. 

I  remember  drifting  with  them  till  I  found  myself 

again 
In  the  rush  and  roar  and  rattle  of  the  engine  and 

the  train ; 
And  when  from  my  surroundings  something  spoke 

of  child  and  wife, 
It  seemed  the  train  was  rumbling  through  a  tunnel 

in  my  life. 


190  GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION 

Then  I  remember  something — like  a  sudden  burst 

of  light- 
That  don't  exactly  tell  it,  but  I  couldn't  tell  it 

right— 
A  something  clinging  to  me  with  its  arms  around 

my  neck — 
A  little  girl,  for  instance — or  an  angel,  I  expect — 

For  she  kissed  me,  cried  and  called  me  "her  dear 

papa,"  and  I  felt 
My  heart  was  pure  virgin  gold,  and  just  about  to 

melt — 

And  so  it  did — it  melted  in  a  mist  of  gleaming  rain 
When  she  took  my  hand  and  whispered,  "My 

mama's  on  the  train." 

There's  some  things  I  can  dwell  on,  and  get  off 

pretty  well, 

But  the  balance  of  this  story  I  know  I  couldn't  tell ; 
So  I  ain't  going  to  try  it,  for  to  tell  the  reason 

why — 
I'm  so  chicken-hearted  lately  I'd  be  certain  'most 

to  cry. 


"TIRED  OUT" 


out  !"    Yet  face  and  brow 
Do  not  look  aweary  now, 
And  the  eyelids  lie  like  two 
Pure,  white  rose-leaves  washed  with  dew. 
Was  her  life  so  hard  a  task?  — 
Strange  that  we  forget  to  ask 
What  the  lips  now  dumb  for  aye 
Could  have  told  us  yesterday  ! 

"Tired  out  !"    A  faded  scrawl 
Pinned  upon  the  ragged  shawl  — 
Nothing  else  to  leave  a  clue 
Even  of  a  friend  or  two, 
Who  might  come  to  fold  the  hands, 
Or  smooth  back  the  dripping  strands 
Of  her  tresses,  or  to  wet 
Them  anew  with  fond  regret. 

"Tired  out  !"    We  can  but  guess 
Of  her  little  happiness  — 
Long  ago,  in  some  fair  land, 
When  a  lover  held  her  hand 
In  the  dream  that  frees  us  all, 
Soon  or  later,  from  its  thrall  — 
Be  it  either  false  or  true, 
We,  at  last,  must  tire,  too. 
191 


HARLIE 

the  little  waxen  hands 
Lightly.    Let  your  warmest  tears 
Speak  regrets,  but  never  fears, — 

Heaven   understands ! 
Let  the  sad  heart,  o'er  the  tomb, 
Lift  again  and  burst  in  bloom 
Fragrant  with  a  prayer  as  sweet 
As  the  lily  at  your  feet. 

Bend  and  kiss  the  folded  eyes — 
They  are  only  feigning  sleep 
While  their  truant  glances  peep 

Into  Paradise. 

See,  the  face,  though  cold  and  white, 
Holds  a  hint  of  some  delight 
E'en  with  Death,  whose  finger-tips 
Rest  upon  the  frozen  lips. 

When,  within  the  years  to  come, 
Vanished  echoes  live  once  more — 
Pattering  footsteps  on  the  floor, 

And  the  sounds  of  home, — 
Let  your  arms  in  fancy  fold 
Little  Harlie  as  of  old — 
As  of  old  and  as  he  waits 
At  the  City's  golden  gates. 
192 


SAY  SOMETHING  TO  ME 

SAY  something  to  me !    I've  waited  so 
long — 

Waited  and  wondered  in  vain ; 
Only  a  sentence  would  fall  like  a  song 

Over  this  listening  pain — 
Over  a  silence  that  glowers  and  frowns, — 

Even  my  pencil  to-night 
Slips  in  the  dews  of  my  sorrow  and  wounds 
Each  tender  word  that  I  write. 

Say  something  to  me — if  only  to  tell 

Me  you  remember  the  past; 
Let  the  sweet  words,  like  the  notes  of  a  bell, 

Ring  out  my  vigil  at  last. 
O  it  were  better,  far  better  than  this 

Doubt  and  distrust  in  the  breast, — 
For  in  the  wine  of  a  fanciful  kiss 

I  could  taste  Heaven,  and — rest. 

Say  something  to  me !    I  kneel  and  I  plead, 

In  my  wild  need,  for  a  word ; 
If  my  poor  heart  from  this  silence  were 
freed, 

I  could  soar  up  like  a  bird 
In  the  glad  morning,  and  twitter  and  sing, 

Carol  and  warble  and  cry 
Blithe  as  the  lark  as  he  cruises  awing 

Over  the  deeps  of  the  sky. 
193 


LEONAINIE 

EDNAINIE— Angels  named  her; 
And  they  took  the  light 
Of  the  laughing  stars  and  framed  her 
In  a  smile  of  white  ; 

And  they  made  her  hair  of  gloomy 
Midnight,  and  her  eyes  of  bloomy 
Moonshine,  and  they  brought  her  to 

me 
In  the  solemn  night. — 

In  a  solemn  night  of  summer, 

When  my  heart  of  gloom 
Blossomed  up  to  greet  the  comer 
Like  a  rose  in  bloom ; 

All  forebodings  that  distressed  me 
I  forgot  as  Joy  caressed  me — 
(Lying  Joy!  that  caught  and  pressed 

me 
In  the  arms  of  doom!) 

Only  spake  the  little  lisper 

In  the  Angel-tongue; 
Yet  I,  listening,  heard  her  whisper, — 

"Songs  are  only  sung 
194 


LEONAINIE  195 

Here    below    that    they    may    grieve 

you — 

Tales  but  told  you  to  deceive  you, — 
So  must  Leonainie  leave  you 
While  her  love  is  young." 

Then  God  smiled  and  it  was  morning. 

Matchless  and  supreme 
Heaven's  glory  seemed  adorning 
Earth  with  its  esteem: 

Every  heart  but  mine  seemed  gifted 
With  the  voice  of  prayer,  and  lifted 
Where  my  Leonainie  drifted 
From  me  like  a  dream. 


A  TEST  OF  LOVE 
'Now  who  shall  say  he  loves  me  not." 

HE  wooed  her  first  in  an  atmosphere 
Of  tender  and  low-breathed  sighs ; 
But  the  pang  of  her  laugh  went  cutting  clear 

To  the  soul  of  the  enterprise ; 
"You  beg  so  pert  for  the  kiss  you  seek 

It  reminds  me,  John,"  she  said, 
"Of  a  poodle  pet  that  jumps  to  'speak' 
For  a  crumb  or  a  crust  of  bread." 

And  flashing  up,  with  the  blush  that  flushed 

His  face  like  a  tableau-light, 
Came  a  bitter  threat  that  his  white  lips 

hushed 

To  a  chill,  hoarse-voiced  "Good  night !" 
And  again  her  laugh,  like  a  knell  that  tolled, 

And  a  wide-eyed  mock  surprise, — 
"Why,  John,"  she  said,  "you  have  taken 

cold 

In  the  chill  air  of  your  sighs !" 
196 


'  A  TEST  OF  LOVE  197 

And  then  he  turned,  and  with  teeth  tight- 
clenched, 

He  told  her  he  hated  her, — 
That  his  love  for  her  from  his  heart  he 
wrenched 

Like  a  corpse  from  a  sepulcher. 
And  then  she  called  him  "a  ghoul  all  red 

With  the  quintessence  of  crimes"- 
"But  I  know  you  love  me  now/'  she  said, 

And  kissed  him  a  hundred  times. 


FATHER  WILLIAM 

A  NEW  VERSION  BY  LEE  O.  HARRIS  AND  JAMES 
WHITCOMB  RILEY 

r'"\/7'OU  are  old,  Father  William,  and  though  one 

X    would  think 

All  the  veins  in  your  body  were  dry, 
Yet  the  end  of  your  nose  is  red  as  a  pink ; 

I  beg  your  indulgence,  but  why?" 

"You  see,"  Father  William  replied,  "in  my  youth— 

'Tis  a  thing  I  must  ever  regret — 
It  worried  me  so  to  keep  up  with  the  truth 

That  my  nose  has  a  flush  on  it  yet." 

"You  are  old,"  said  the  youth,  "and  I  grieve  to  de 
tect 

A  feverish  gleam  in  your  eye ; 
Yet  I'm  willing  to  give  you  full  time  to  reflect. 

Now,  pray,  can  you  answer  me  why?" 

"Alas,"  said  the  sage,  "I  was  tempted  to  choose 

Me  a  wife  in  my  earlier  years, 
And  the  grief,  when  I  think  that  she  didn't  refuse, 

Has  reddened  my  eyelids  with  tears." 
198 


FATHER  WILLJAM  199 

"You  are  old,  Father  William,"  the  young  man  said, 
"And  you  never  touch  wine,  you  declare, 

Yet  you  sleep  with  your  feet  at  the  head  of  the  bed; 
Now  answer  me  that  if  you  dare." 

"In  my  youth/'  said  the  sage,  "I  was  told  it  was 
true, 

That  the  world  turned  around  in  the  night ; 
I  cherished  the  lesson,  my  boy,  and  I  knew 

That  at  morning  my  feet  would  be  right." 

"You  are  old,"  said  the  youth,  "and  it  grieved  me  to 

note, 

As  you  recently  fell  through  the  door, 
That  'full  as  a  goose'  had  been  chalked  on  your 

coat; 
Now  answer  me  that  I  implore." 

"My  boy,"  said  the  sage,  "I  have  answered  you  fair, 
While  you  stuck  to  the  point  in  dispute, 

But  this  is  a  personal  matter,  and  there 
Is  my  answer — the  toe  of  my  boot." 


WHAT  THE  WIND  SAID 

/MUSE  to-day,  in  a  listless  way, 
In  the  gleam  of  a  summer  land; 
I  close  my  eyes  as  a  lover  may 

At  the  touch  of  his  sweetheart's  hand, 

And  I  hear  these  things  in  the  whisperings 

Of  the  zephyrs  round  me  fanned: — 

I  am  the  Wind,  and  I  rule  mankind, 

And  I  hold  a  sovereign  reign 
Over  the  lands,  as  God  designed, 

And  the  waters  they  contain: 
Lo !  the  bound  of  the  wide  world  round 

Falleth  in  my  domain ! 

I  was  born  on  a  stormy  morn 
In  a  kingdom  walled  with  snow, 

Whose  crystal  cities  laugh  to  scorn 
The  proudest  the  world  can  show; 

And  the  daylight's  glare  is  frozen  there 
In  the  breath  of  the  blasts  that  blow. 
200 


WHAT  THE  WIND  SAID  201 

Life  to  me  was  a  jubilee 

From  the  first  of  my  youthful  days : 
Clinking  my  icy  toys  with  glee — 

Playing  my  childish  plays ; 
Filling  my  hands  with  the  silver  sands 

To  scatter  a  thousand  ways : 

Chasing  the  flakes  that  the  Polar  shakes 

From  his  shaggy  coat  of  white, 
Or  hunting  the  trace  of  the  track  he  makes 

And  sweeping  it  from  sight, 
As  he  turned  to  glare  from  the  slippery  stair 

Of  the  iceberg's  farthest  height. 

Till  I  grew  so  strong  that  I  strayed  ere  long 
From  my  home  of  ice  and  chill ; 

With  an  eager  heart  and  a  merry  song 
I  traveled  the  snows  until 

I  heard  the  thaws  in  the  ice-crag's  jaws 
Crunched  with  a  hungry  will ; 

And  the  angry  crash  of  the  waves  that  dash 
Themselves  on  the  jagged  shore 

Where  the  splintered  masts  of  the  ice-wrecks 

flash, 
And  the  frightened  breakers  roar 

In  wild  unrest  on  the  ocean's  breast 
For  a  thousand  leagues  or  more. 


202  WHAT  THE  WIND  SAID 

And  the  grand  old  sea  invited  me 
With  a  million  beckoning  hands, 

And  I  spread  my  wings  for  a  flight  as  free 
As  ever  a  sailor  plans 

When  his  thoughts  are  wild  and  his  heart  be 
guiled 
With  the  dreams  of  foreign  lands. 

I  passed  a  ship  on  its  homeward  trip, 
With  a  weary  and  toil-worn  crew ; 

And  I  kissed  their  flag  with  a  welcome  lip, 
And  so  glad  a  gale  I  blew 

That  the  sailors  quaffed  their  grog  and 

laughed 
At  the  work  I  made  them  do. 

I  drifted  by  where  sea-groves  lie 

Like  brides  in  the  fond  caress 
Of  the  warm  sunshine  and  the  tender  sky — 

Where  the  ocean,  passionless 
And  tranquil,  lies  like  a  child  whose  eyes 

Are  blurred  with  drowsiness. 

I  drank  the  air  and  the  perfume  there, 
And  bathed  in  a  fountain's  spray; 

And  I  smoothed  the  wings  and  the  plumage 

rare 
Of  a  bird  for  his  roundelay, 

And  fluttered  a  rag  from  a  signal-crag 
For  a  wretched  castaway. 


WHAT  THE  WIND  SAID  203 

With  a  sea-gull  resting  on  my  breast, 

I  launched  on  a  madder  flight : 
And  I  lashed  the  waves  to  a  wild  unrest, 

And  howled  with  a  fierce  delight 
Till  the  daylight  slept;  and  I  wailed  and 
wept 

Like  a  fretful  babe  all  night. 

For  I  heard  the  boom  of  a  gun  strike  doom ; 

And  the  gleam  of  a  blood-red  star 
Glared  at  me  through  the  mirk  and  gloom 

From  the  lighthouse  tower  afar ; 
And  I  held  my  breath  at  the  shriek  of  death 

That  came  from  the  harbor  bar. 

For  I  am  the  Wind,  and  I  rule  mankind, 

And  I  hold  a  sovereign  reign 
Over  the  lands,  as  God  designed, 

And  the  waters  they  contain: 
Lo !  the  bound  of  the  wide  world  round 

Falleth  in  my  domain! 

I  journeyed  on,  when  the  night  was  gone, 

O'er  a  coast  of  oak  and  pine ; 
And  I  followed  a  path  that  a  stream  had 
drawn 

Through  a  land  of  vale  and  vine, 
And  here  and  there  was  a  village  fair 

In  a  nest  of  shade  and  shine. 


204  WHAT  Til]-.  WIND  SAID 

I  passed  o'er  lakes  where  the  sunshine  shakes 

And  shivers  his  golden  lance 
On  the  glittering  shield  of  the  wave  that 
breaks 

Where  the  fish-boats  dip  and  dance, 
And  the  trader  sails  where  the  mist  unveils 

The  glory  of  old  romance. 

I  joyed  to  stand  where  the  jeweled  hand 

Of  the  maiden-morning  lies 
On  the  tawny  brow  of  the  mountain-land. 

Where  the  eagle  shrieks  and  cries, 
And  holds  his  throne  to  himself  alone 

From  the  light  of  human  eyes. 

Adown  deep  glades  where  the  forest  shades 
Are  dim  as  the  dusk  of  day — 

Where  only  the  foot  of  the  wild  beast  wades, 
Or  the  Indian  dares  to  stray, 

As  the  blacksnakcs  glide  through  the  reeds 

and  hide 
In  the  swamp-depths  grim  and  gray. 

And  I  turned  and  fled  from  the  place  of 
dread 

To  the  far-off  haunts  of  men. 
"In  the  city's  heart  is  rest,"  I  said, — 

But  I  found  it  not,  and  when 
I  saw  but  care  and  vice  reign  there 

I  was  filled  with  wrath  again : 


WHAT  THE  rr/.YD  SAID  205 

And  I  blew  a  spark  in  the  midnight  dark 
Till  it  Hashed  to  an  angry  ilame 

And  scarred  the  sky  with  a  lurid  mark 
As  red  as  the  blush  of  shame : 

And  a  hint  of  hell  was  the  dying  yell 
That  up  from  the  ruins  came. 

The  bells  went  wild,  and  the  black  smoke 
piled 

Its  pillars  against  the  night, 
Till  I  gathered  them,  like  tlocks  defiled. 

And  scattered  them  left  and  right, 
While  the  holocaust's  red  tresses  tossed 

As  a  maddened  Fury's  might. 

"Ye  overthrown !"  did  I  jeer  and  groan — 
"Ho!  who  is  your  master? — say! — 

Ye  shapes  that  writhe  in  the  slag  and  moan 
Your  slow-charred  souls  away — 

Ye  worse  than  worst  of  things  accurst — 
Ye  dead  leaves  of  a  day !" 

I  am  the  Wind,  and  I  rule  mankind. 

And  I  hold  a  sovereign  reign 
Over  the  lands,  as  God  designed, 

And  the  waters  they  contain : 
Lo!  the  bound  of  the  wide  world  round 

Falleth  in  my  domain ! 


206  WHAT  THE  WIND  SAID 

I  wake,  as  one  from  a  dream  half  done, 
And  gaze  with  a  dazzled  eye 

On  an  autumn  leaf  like  a  scrap  of  sun 
That  the  wind  goes  whirling  by, 

While  afar  I  hear,  with  a  chill  of  fear, 
The  winter  storm-king  sigh. 


MORTON 

THE  warm  pulse  of  the  nation  has  grown 
chill; 

The  muffled  heart  of  Freedom,  like  a  knell, 
Throbs  solemnly  for  one  whose  earthly  will 
Wrought  every  mission  well. 

Whose  glowing  reason  towered  above  the  sea 
Of  dark  disaster  like  a  beacon  light, 

And  led  the  Ship  of  State,  unscathed  and  free, 
Out  of  the  gulfs  of  night. 

When  Treason,  rabid-mouthed,  and  fanged  with 
steel, 

Lay  growling  o'er  the  bones  of  fallen  braves. 
And  when  beneath  the  tyrant's  iron  heel 

Were  ground  the  hearts  of  slaves, 

And  War,  with  all  his  train  of  horrors,  leapt 
Across  the  fortress-walls  of  Liberty. 

With  havoc,  e'en  the  marble  goddess  wept 
With  tears  of  blood  to  see. 
207 


208  MORTON 

Throughout  it  all  his  brave  and  kingly  mind 
Kept  loyal  vigil  o'er  the  patriot's  vow, 

And  yet  the  flag  he  lifted  to  the  wind 
Is  drooping  o'er  him  now. 

And  Peace — all  pallid  from  the  battle-field 
When  first  again  it  hovered  o'er  the  land, 

And  found  his  voice  above  it  like  a  shield, 
Had  nestled  in  his  hand. 

O  throne  of  State  and  gilded  Senate  halls — 
Though  thousands  throng  your  aisles  and  gal 
leries — 

How  empty  are  ye !  and  what  silence  falls 
On  your  hilarities ! 

And  yet,  though  great  the  loss  to  us  appears, 
The  consolation  sweetens  all  our  pain — 

Though  hushed  the  voice,  through  all  the  coming 

years 
Its  echoes  will  remain. 


AN  AUTUMNAL  EXTRAVAGANZA 

WITH  a  sweeter  voice  than  birds 
Dare  to  twitter  in  their  sleep, 
Pipe  for  me  a  tune  of  words, 

Till  my  dancing  fancies  leap 
Into  freedom  vaster  far 
Than  the  realms  of  Reason  are! 
Sing  for  me  with  wilder  fire 

Than  the  lover  ever  sung, 
From  the  time  he  twanged  the  lyre, 

When  the  world  was  baby-young. 

O,  my  maiden  Autumn,  you — 

You  have  filled  me  through  and  through, 

With  a  passion  so  intense, 

All  of  earthly  eloquence 

Fails,  and  falls,  and  swoons  away 
In  your  presence.    Like  as  one 
Who  essays  to  look  the  sun 

Fairly  in  the  face,  I  say, 
Though  my  eyes  you  dazzle  blind 
Greater  dazzled  is  my  mind. 
So,  my  Autumn,  let  me  kneel 

At  your  feet  and  worship  you ! 
Be  my  sweetheart ;  let  me  feel 
209 


210          AN  AUTUMNAL  EXTRAVAGANZA 

Your  caress ;  and  tell  me  too 
Why  your  smiles  bewilder  me—? 
Glancing  into  laughter,  then 
Trancing  into  calm  again, 
Till  your  meaning  drowning  lies 
In  the  dim  depths  of  your  eyes. 
Let  me  see  the  things  you  see 
Down  the  depths  of  mystery ! 
Blow  aside  the  hazy  veil 

From  the  daylight  of  your  face 
With  the  f ragrance-ladened  gale 

Of  your  saucy  breath  and  chase 

Every  dimple  to  its  place. 
Lift  your  gipsy  finger-tips 
To  the  roses  of  your  lips, 
And  fling  down  to  me  a  bud ; 

But  an  unblown  kiss — but  one — 
It  shall  blossom  in  my  blood, 

Even  after  life  is  done — 
When  I  dare  to  touch  the  brow 
Your  rare  hair  is  veiling  now — 
When  the  rich,  red-golden  strands 
Of  the  treasure  in  my  hands 
Shall  be  all  of  worldly  worth 
Heaven  lifted  from  the  earth, 
Like  a  banner  to  have  set 
On  its  highest  minaret. 


THE  ROSE 

IT  tossed  its  head  at  the  wooing  breeze ; 
And  the  sun,  like  a  bashful  swain, 
Beamed  on  it  through  the  waving  trees 

With  a  passion  all  in  vain, — 
For  my  rose  laughed  in  a  crimson  glee, 
And  hid  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me. 

The  honey-bee  came  there  to  sing 

His  love  through  the  languid  hours, 

And  vaunt  of  his  hives,  as  a  proud  old  king 
Might  boast  of  his  palace-towers: 

But  my  rose  bowed  in  a  mockery, 

And  hid  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me. 

The  humming-bird,  like  a  courtier  gay, 
Dipped  down  with  a  dalliant  song, 

And  twanged  his  wings  through  the  roundelay 
Of  love  the  whole  day  long: 

Yet  my  rose  turned  from  his  minstrelsy 

And  hid  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me. 
211 


212  THE  ROSE 

The  firefly  came  in  the  twilight  dim 

My  red,  red  rose  to  woo — 
Till  quenched  was  the  flame  of  love  in  him, 

And  the  light  of  his  lantern  too, 
As  my  rose  wept  with  dewdrops  three 
And  hid  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me. 

And  I  said :  I  will  cull  my  own  sweet  rose — 

Some  day  I  will  claim  as  mine 
The  priceless  worth  of  the  flower  that  knows 

No  change,  but  a  bloom  divine — 
The  bloom  of  a  fadeless  constancy 
That  hides  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me! 

But  time  passed  by  in  a  strange  disguise, 

And  I  marked  it  not,  but  lay 
In  a  lazy  dream,  with  drowsy  eyes, 

Till  the  summer  slipped  away, 
And  a  chill  wind  sang  in  a  minor  key : 
"Where  is  the  rose  that  waits  for  thee  ?" 


I  dream  to-day,  o'er  a  purple  stain 
Of  bloom  on  a  withered  stalk, 

Pelted  down  by  the  autumn  rain 
In  the  dust  of  the  garden-walk, 

That  an  Angel-rose  in  the  world  to  be 

Will  hide  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me. 


THE  MERMAN 
I 

WHO  would  be 
A  merman  gay, 
Singing  alone, 
Sitting  alone, 
With  a  mermaid's  knee, 
For  instance — hey — 
For  a  throne? 

II 

I  would  be  a  merman  gay ; 

I  would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  day  long ; 
I  would  fill  my  lungs  with  the  strongest  brine, 

And  squirt  it  up  in  a  spray  of  song, 
And  soak  my  head  in  my  liquid  voice ; 

I'd  curl  my  tail  in  curves  divine, 
And  let  each  curve  in  a  kink  rejoice. 

I'd  tackle  the  mermaids  under  the  sea, 
And  yank  'em  around  till  they  yanked  me, 

Sportively,  sportively ; 
And  then  we  would  wiggle  away,  away, 
To  the  pea-green  groves  on  the  coast  of  day, 
Chasing  each  other  sportively. 
213 


214  THE  MERMAN 

III 


There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star ; 
But  the  waves  would  twang  like  a  wet  guitar- 
Low  thunder  and  thrum  in  the  darkness  grum- 

Neither  moon  nor  star ; 
We  would  shriek  aloud  in  the  dismal  dales- 
Shriek  at  each  other  and  squawk  and  squeal: 

"All  night !"  rakishly,  rakishly ; 
They  would  pelt  me  with  oysters  and 

wiggletails, 
Laughing  and  clapping  their  hands  at  me, 

:'A11  night!"  prankishly,  prankishly; 
But  I  would  toss  them  back  in  mine, 
Lobsters  and  turtles  of  quaint  design ; 
Then  leaping  out  in  an  abrupt  way, 
I'd  snatch  them  bald  in  my  devilish  glee, 
And  skip  away  when  they  snatched  at  me, 

Fiendishly,  fiendishly. 
O,  what  a  jolly  life  I'd  lead, 
Ah,  what  a  "bang-up"  life  indeed! 
Soft  are  the  mermaids  under  the  sea— 
We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 


THE  RAINY  MORNING 

THE  dawn  of  the  day  was  dreary, 
And  the  lowering  clouds  o'erhead 
Wept  in  a  silent  sorrow 

Where  the  sweet  sunshine  lay  dead; 
And  a  wind  came  out  of  the  eastward 

Like  an  endless  sigh  of  pain, 
And  the  leaves  fell  down  in  the  pathway 
And  writhed  in  the  falling  rain. 

I  had  tried  in  a  brave  endeavor 

To  chord  my  harp  with  the  sun, 
But  the  strings  would  slacken  ever, 

And  the  task  was  a  weary  one : 
And  so,  like  a  child  impatient 

And  sick  of  a  discontent, 
I  bowed  in  a  shower  of  tear-drops 

And  mourned  with  the  instrument. 

And  lo !  as  I  bowed,  the  splendor 

Of  the  sun  bent  over  me, 
With  a  touch  as  warm  and  tender 

As  a  father's  hand  might  be : 
And,  even  as  I  felt  its  presence, 

My  clouded  soul  grew  bright, 
And  the  tears,  like  the  rain  of  morning, 

Melted  in  mists  of  light. 
215 


WE  ARE  NOT  ALWAYS  GLAD  WHEN 
WE  SMILE 

WE  are  not  always  glad  when  we  smile : 
Though  we  wear  a  fair  face  and  are  gay, 
And  the  world  we  deceive 
May  not  ever  believe 
We  could  laugh  in  a  happier  way. — 
Yet,  down  in  the  deeps  of  the  soul, 
Ofttimes,  with  our  faces  aglow, 
There's  an  ache  and  a  moan 
That  we  know  of  alone, 
And  as  only  the  hopeless  may  know. 

We  are  not  always  glad  when  we  smile, — 
For  the  heart,  in  a  tempest  of  pain, 
May  live  in  the  guise 
Of  a  smile  in  the  eyes 
As  a  rainbow  may  live  in  the  rain  ; 
And  the  stormiest  night  of  our  woe 
May  hang  out  a  radiant  star 
Whose  light  in  the  sky 
Of  despair  is  a  lie 
As  black  as  the  thunder-clouds  are. 
216 


WE  ARE  NOT  ALWAYS  GLAD  217 

We  are  not  always  glad  when  we  smile ! — 
But  the  conscience  is  quick  to  record, 

All  the  sorrow  and  sin 

We  are  hiding  within 
Is  plain  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord: 
And  ever,  O  ever,  till  pride 
And  evasion  shall  cease  to  defile 

The  sacred  recess 

Of  the  soul,  we  confess 
We  are  not  always  glad  when  we  smile. 


A  SUMMER  SUNRISE 


AFTER  LEE  0.  HARRIS 

THE  master-hand  whose  pencils  trace 
This  wondrous  landscape  of  the  morn, 
Is  but  the  sun,  whose  glowing  face 
Reflects  the  rapture  and  the  grace 
Of  inspiration  Heaven-born. 

And  yet  with  vision-dazzled  eyes, 

I  see  the  lotus-lands  of  old, 
Where  odorous  breezes  fall  and  rise, 
And  mountains,  peering  in  the  skies, 

Stand  ankle-deep  in  lakes  of  gold. 

And,  spangled  with  the  shine  and  shade, 

I  see  the  rivers  raveled  out 
In  strands  of  silver,  slowly  fade 
In  threads  of  light  along  the  glade 

Where  truant  roses  hide  and  pout. 
218 


A  SUMMER  SUNRISE  219 

The  tamarind  on  gleaming  sands 
Droops  drowsily  beneath  the  heat ; 

And  bowed  as  though  aweary,  stands 

The  stately  palm,  with  lazy  hands 

That  fold  their  shadows  round  his  feet. 

And  mistily,  as  through  a  veil, 

I  catch  the  glances  of  a  sea 
Of  sapphire,  dimpled  with  a  gale 
Toward  Colch's  blowing,  where  the  sail 

Of  Jason's  Argo  beckons  me. 

And  gazing  on  and  farther  yet, 

I  see  the  isles  enchanted,  bright 
With  fretted  spire  and  parapet, 
And  gilded  mosque  and  minaret, 

That  glitter  in  the  crimson  light. 

But  as  I  gaze,  the  city's  walls 
Are  keenly  smitten  with  a  gleam 

Of  pallid  splendor,  that  appalls 

The  fancy  as  the  ruin  falls 
In  ashen  embers  of  a  dream. 

Yet  over  all  the  waking  earth 

The  tears  of  night  are  brushed  away, 

And  eyes  are  lit  with  love  and  mirth, 

And  benisons  of  richest  worth 
GO  up  to  bless  the  new-born  day. 


DAS  KRIST  KINDEL 


I   HAD  fed  the  fire  and  stirred  it,  till  the  sparkles 
in  delight 

Snapped  their  saucy  little  fingers  at  the  chill  De 
cember  night ; 
And  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  I  had  tilted  back 

"my  throne" — 

The  old  split-bottomed  rocker — and  was  musing  all 
alone. 


I  could  hear  the  hungry  Winter  prowling  round  the 

outer  door, 
And  the  tread  of  muffled  footsteps  on  the  white 

piazza  floor; 
But  the  sounds  came  to  me  only  as  the  murmur  of 

a  stream 
That  mingled  with  the  current  of  a  lazy-flowing 

dream. 

Like  a  fragrant  incense  rising,  curled  the  smoke  of 
my  cigar, 

With  the  lamplight  gleaming  through  it  like  a  mist- 
enfolded  star; — 

220 


DAS  KRIST  KINDEL  221 

And  as  I  gazed,  the  vapor  like  a  curtain  rolled  away, 
With  a  sound  of  bells  that  tinkled,  and  the  clatter 
of  a  sleigh. 

And  in  a  vision,  painted  like  a  picture  in  the  air, 
I  saw  the  elfish  figure  of  a  man  with  frosty  hair — 
A  quaint  old  man  that  chuckled  with  a  laugh  as  he 

appeared, 
And  with  ruddy  cheeks  like  embers  in  the  ashes  of 

his  beard. 

He  poised  himself  grotesquely,  in  an  attitude  of 

mirth, 
On  a  damask-covered  hassock  that  was  sitting  on 

the  hearth ; 

And  at  a  magic  signal  of  his  stubby  little  thumb, 
I  saw  the  fireplace  changing  to  a  bright  proscenium. 

And  looking  there,  I  marveled  as  I  saw  a  mimic 
stage 

Alive  with  little  actors  of  a  very  tender  age ; 

And  some  so  very  tiny  that  they  tottered  as  they 
walked, 

And  lisped  and  purled  and  gurgled  like  the  brook 
lets,  when  they  talked. 

And  their  faces  were  like  lilies,  and  their  eyes  like 

purest  dew, 
And  their  tresses  like  the  shadows  that  the  shine  is 

woven  through ; 


222  DAS  KRIST  KINDEL 

And  they  each  had  little  burdens,  and  a  little  tale 

to  tell 
Of  fairy  lore,  and  giants,  and  delights  delectable. 

And  they  mixed  and  intermingled,  weaving  melody 

with  joy, 
Till  the  magic  circle  clustered  round  a  blooming 

baby-boy ; 
And  they  threw  aside  their  treasures  in  an  ecstacy 

of  glee, 
And  bent,  with  dazzled  faces  and  with  parted  lips, 

to  see. 

'Twas  a  wondrous  little  fellow,  with  a  dainty  dou 
ble-chin, 

And  chubby  cheeks,  and  dimples  for  the  smiles  to 
blossom  in ; 

And  he  looked  as  ripe  and  rosy,  on  his  bed  of  straw 
and  reeds, 

As  a  mellow  little  pippin  that  had  tumbled  in  the 
weeds. 

And  I  saw  the  happy  mother,  and  a  group  sur 
rounding  her 

That  knelt  with  costly  presents  of  frankincense  and 
myrrh ; 

And  I  thrilled  with  awe  and  wonder,  as  a  murmur 
on  the  air 

Came  drifting  o'er  the  hearing  in  a  melody  of 
prayer : — 


DAS  KR1ST  KINDEL  223 

By  the  splendor  in  the  heavens,  and  the  hush  upon 

the  sea, 

And  the  majesty  of  silence  reigning  over  Galilee, — 
We  feel  Thy  kingly  presence,  and  we  humbly  bow 

the  knee 
And  lift  our  hearts  and  voices  in  gratefulness  to 

Thee. 

Thy  messenger  has  spoken,  and  our  doubts  have 
fled  and  gone 

As  the  dark  and  spectral  shadows  of  the  night  be 
fore  the  dawn; 

And,  in  the  kindly  shelter  of  the  light  around  us 
drawn, 

We  would  nestle  down  forever  in  the  breast  we 
lean  upon. 

You  have  given  us  a  shepherd — You  have  given 

us  a  guide, 
And  the  light  of  Heaven  grew  dimmer  when  You 

sent  him  from  Your  side, — 
But  he  comes  to  lead  Thy  children  where  the  gates 

will  open  wide 
To   welcome   his   returning   when   his   works   are 

glorified. 

By  the  splendor  in  the  heavens,  and  the  hush  upon 

the  sea, 
And  the  majesty  of  silence  reigning  over  Galilee, — 


224  'DAS  KRIST  KIN  DEL 

We  feel  Thy  kingly  presence,  and  we  humbly  bow 

the  knee 
And  lift  our  hearts  and  voices  in  gratefulness  to 

Thee. 

Then  the  vision,  slowly  failing,  with  the  words  of 
the  refrain, 

Fell  swooning  in  the  moonlight  through  the  frosty 
window-pane ; 

And  I  heard  the  clock  proclaiming,  like  an  eager 
sentinel 

Who  brings  the  world  good  tidings, — "It  is  Christ 
mas — all  is  well!" 


AN  OLD  YEAR'S  ADDRESS 

"THAVE  twankled  the  strings  of  the  twinkling 
JL  rain ; 

I  have  burnished  the  meteor's  mail ; 
I  have  bridled  the  wind 
When  he  whinnied  and  whined 
With  a  bunch  of  stars  tied  to  his  tail ; 
But  my  sky-rocket  hopes,  hanging  over  the  past, 
Must  fuzzle  and  fazzle  and  fizzle  at  last!" 

I  had  waded  far  out  in  a  drizzling  dream, 
And  my  fancies  had  spattered  my  eyes 
With  a  vision  of  dread, 
With  a  number  ten  head, 
And  a  form  of  diminutive  size — 
That  wavered  and  wagged  in  a  singular  way 
As  he  wound  himself  up  and  proceeded  to  say, — 

"I  have  trimmed  all  my  corns  with  the  blade  of  the 

moon; 

I  have  picked  every  tooth  with  a  star : 
And  I  thrill  to  recall 
That  I  went  through  it  all 
Like  a  tune  through  a  tickled  guitar. 
225 


226  AN  OLD  YEAR'S  ADDRESS 

I  have  ripped  up  the  rainbow  and  raveled  the  ends 
When  the  sun  and  myself  were  particular  friends." 

And  pausing  again,  and  producing  a  sponge 
And  wiping  the  tears  from  his  eyes, 
He  sank  in  a  chair 
With  a  technical  air 
That  he  struggled  in  vain  to  disguise, — 
For  a  sigh  that  he  breathed,  as  I  over  him  leant, 
Was  haunted  and  hot  with  a  peppermint  scent. 

"Alas!"  he  continued  in  quavering  tones 
As  a  pang  rippled  over  his  face, 
"The  life  was  too  fast 
For  the  pleasure  to  last 
In  my  very  unfortunate  case; 
And  I'm  going" — he  said  as  he  turned  to  adjust 
A  fuse  in  his  bosom,— "Fm  going  to— BUST !" 

I  shrieked  and  awoke  with  the  sullen  che-boom 
Of  a  five-pounder  filling  my  ears ; 
And  a  roseate  bloom 
Of  a  light  in  the  room 
I  saw  through  the  mist  of  my  tears, — 
But  my  guest  of  the  night  never  saw  the  display, 
He  had  f uzzled  and  f  azzled  and  fizzled  away ! 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  PLAINT 

In  words  like  weeds,  I'll  wrap  me  o'er, 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  enfold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 

— TENNYSON. 

'THHE  bells  that  lift  their  yawning  throats 

-L      And  lolling  tongues  with  wrangling  cries 
Flung  up  in  harsh,  discordant  notes, 

As  though  in  anger,  at  the  skies, — 
Are  rilled  with  echoings  replete, 

With  purest  tinkles  of  delight — 
So  I  would  have  a  something  sweet 

Ring  in  the  song  I  sing  to-night. 

As  when  a  blotch  of  ugly  guise 

On  some  poor  artist's  naked  floor 
Becomes  a  picture  in  his  eyes, 

And  he  forgets  that  he  is  poor, — 
So  I  look  out  upon  the  night, 

That  ushers  in  the  dawning  year, 
And  in  a  vacant  blur  of  light 

I  see  these  fantasies  appear. 
227 


228  A  NEW  YEAR'S  PLAINT 

I  see  a  home  whose  windows  gleam 

Like  facets  of  a  mighty  gem 
That  some  poor  king's  distorted  dream 

Has  fastened  in  his  diadem. 
And  I  behold  a  throng  that  reels 

In  revelry  of  dance  and  mirth, 
With  hearts  of  love  beneath  their  heels, 

And  in  their  bosoms  hearts  of  earth. 

O  Luxury,  as  false  and  grand 

As  in  the  mystic  tales  of  old, 
When  genii  answered  man's  command, 

And  built  of  nothing  halls  of  gold! 
O  Banquet,  bright  with  pallid  jets, 

And  tropic  blooms,  and  vases  caught 
In  palms  of  naked  statuettes, 

Ye  can  not  color  as  ye  ought ! 

For,  crouching  in  the  storm  without, 

I  see  the  figure  of  a  child, 
In  little  ragged  roundabout, 

Who  stares  with  eyes  that  never  smiled — 
And  he,  in  fancy  can  but  taste 

The  dainties  of  the  kingly  fare, 
And  pick  the  crumbs  that  go  to  waste 

Where  none  have  learned  to  kneel  in  prayer. 

Go,  Pride,  and  throw  your  goblet  down — 
The  "merry  greeting"  best  appears 

On  loving  lips  that  never  drown 
Its  worth  but  in  the  wine  of  tears; 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  PLAINT  229 

Go,  close  your  coffers  like  your  hearts, 
And  shut  your  hearts  against  the  poor, 

Go,  strut  through  all  your  pretty  parts 
But  take  the  "Welcome"  from  your  door. 


LUTHER  BENSON 

AFTER   READING   HIS   AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

POOR  victim  of  that  vulture  curse 
That  hovers  o'er  the  universe, 
With  ready  talons  quick  to  strike 
In  every  human  heart  alike, 
And  cruel  beak  to  stab  and  tear 
In  virtue's  vitals  everywhere, — 
You  need  no  sympathy  of  mine 
To  aid  you,  for  a  strength  divine 
Encircles  you,  and  lifts  you  clear 
Above  this  earthly  atmosphere. 

And  yet  I  can  but  call  you  poor, 
As,  looking  through  the  open  door 
Of  your  sad  life,  I  only  see 
A  broad  landscape  of  misery, 
And  catch  through  mists  of  pitying  tears 
The  ruins  of  your  younger  years, 
I  see  a  father's  shielding  arm 
Thrown  round  you  in  a  wild  alarm — 
Struck  down,  and  powerless  to  free 
Or  aid  you  in  your  agony. 
230 


LUTHER  BENSON  231 

I  see  a  happy  home  grow  dark 

And  desolate — the  latest  spark 

Of  hope  is  passing  in  eclipse — 

The  prayer  upon  a  mother's  lips 

Has  fallen  with  her  latest  breath 

In  ashes  on  the  lips  of  death — 

I  see  a  penitent  who  reels, 

And  writhes,  and  clasps  his  hands,  and 

kneels, 

And  moans  for  mercy  for  the  sake 
Of  that  fond  heart  he  dared  to  break. 

And  lo !  as  when  in  Galilee 
A  voice  above  the  troubled  sea 
Commanded  "Peace ;  be  still !"  the  flood 
That  rolled  in  tempest-waves  of  blood 
Within  you,  fell  in  calm  so  sweet 
It  ripples  round  the  Saviour's  feet; 
And  all  your  noble  nature  thrilled 
With  brightest  hope  and  faith,  and  filled 
Your  thirsty  soul  with  joy  and  peace 
And  praise  to  Him  who  gave  release. 


"DREAM" 

T)ECAUSE  her  eyes  were  far  too  deep 
JD  And  holy  for  a  laugh  to  leap 
Across  the  brink  where  sorrow  tried 
To  drown  within  the  amber  tide; 
Because  the  looks,  whose  ripples  kissed 
The  trembling  lids  through  tender  mist, 
Were  dazzled  with  a  radiant  gleam — 
Because  of  this  I  called  her  "Dream." 

Because  the  roses  growing  wild 
About  her  features  when  she  smiled 
Were  ever  dewed  with  tears  that  fell 
With  tenderness  ineffable; 
Because  her  lips  might  spill  a  kiss 
That,  dripping  in  a  world  like  this, 
Would  tincture  death's  myrrh-bitter  stream 
To  sweetness — so  I  called  her  "Dream." 

Because  I  could  not  understand 
The  magic  touches  of  a  hand 
That  seemed,  beneath  her  strange  control, 
To  smooth  the  plumage  of  the  soul 
232 


"DREAM"  233 

And  calm  it,  till,  with  folded  wings, 
It  half   forgot  its  flutterings, 
And,  nestled  in  her  palm,  did  seem 
To  trill  a  song  that  called  her  "Dream." 

Because  I  saw  her,  in  a  sleep 
As  dark  and  desolate  and  deep 
And  fleeting  as  the  taunting  night 
That  flings  a  vision  of  delight 
To  some  lorn  martyr  as  he  lies 
In  slumber  ere  the  day  he  dies — 
Because  she  vanished  like  a  gleam 
Of  glory,  do  I  call  her  "Dream." 


WHEN  EVENING  SHADOWS  FALL 

WHEN  evening  shadows  fall, 
She  hangs  her  cares  away 
Like  empty  garments  on  the  wall 

That  hides  her  from  the  day; 
And  while  old  memories  throng, 

And  vanished  voices  call, 
She  lifts  her  grateful  heart  in  song 
When  evening  shadows  fall. 

Her  weary  hands  forget 

The  burdens  of  the  day. 
The  weight  of  sorrow  and  regret 

In  music  rolls  away; 
And  from  the  day's  dull  tomb, 

That  holds  her  in  its  thrall, 
Her  soul  springs  up  in  lily  bloom 

When  evening  shadows  fall. 

O  weary  heart  and  hand, 

Go  bravely  to  the  strife — 
No  victory  is  half  so  grand 

As  that  which  conquers  life! 
234 


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WHEN  EVENING  SHADOWS  FALL          235 

One  day  shall  yet  be  thine — 

The  day  that  waits  for  all 
Whose  prayerful  eyes  are  things  divine 

When  evening  shadows  fall. 


YLLADMAR 

HER  hair  was,  oh,  so  dense  a  blur 
Of  darkness,  midnight  envied  her ; 
And  stars  grew  dimmer  in  the  skies 
To  see  the  glory  of  her  eyes ; 
And  all  the  summer  rain  of  light 
That  showered  from  the  moon  at  night 
Fell  o'er  her  features  as  the  gloom 
Of  twilight  o'er  a  lily-bloom. 

The  crimson  fruitage  of  her  lips 
Was  ripe  and  lush  with  sweeter  wine 
Than  burgundy  or  muscadine 
Or  vintage  that  the  burgher  sips 
In  some  old  garden  on  the  Rhine : 
And  I  to  taste  of  it  could  well 
Believe  my  heart  a  crucible 
Of  molten  love — and  I  could  feel 
The  drunken  soul  within  me  reel 
And  rock  and  stagger  till  it  fell. 
236 


YLLADMAR  237 

And  do  you  wonder  that  I  bowed 
Before  her  splendor  as  a  cloud 
Of  storm  the  golden-sandaled  sun 
Had  set  his  conquering  foot  upon  ? 
And  did  she  will  it,  I  could  lie 
In  writhing  rapture  down  and  die 
A  death  so  full  of  precious  pain 
I'd  waken  up  to  die  again. 


A  FANTASY 

A  FANTASY  that  came  to  me 

XJL      As  wild  and  wantonly  designed 

As  ever  any  dream  might  be 

Unraveled  from  a  madman's  mind,- 

A  tangle-work  of  tissue,  wrought 
By  cunning  of  the  spider-brain, 
And  woven,  in  an  hour  of  pain, 

To  trap  the  giddy  flies  of  thought — 

I  stood  beneath  a  summer  moon 
All  swollen  to  uncanny  girth, 

And  hanging,  like  the  sun  at  noon, 
Above  the  center  of  the  earth; 
But  with  a  sad  and  sallow  light, 
As  it  had  sickened  of  the  night 

And  fallen  in  a  pallid  swoon. 

Around  me  I  could  hear  the  rush 
Of  sullen  winds,  and  feel  the  whir, 

Of  unseen  wings  apast  me  brush 
Like  phantoms  round  a  sepulcher; 

And,  like  a  carpeting  of  plush, 
238 


A  FANTASY  239 

A  lawn  unrolled  beneath  my  feet, 
Bespangled  o'er  with  flowers  as  sweet 
To  look  upon  as  those  that  nod 
Within  the  garden-fields  of  God, 
But  odorless  as  those  that  blow 
In  ashes  in  the  shades  below. 

And  on  my  hearing  fell  a  storm 

Of  gusty  music,  sadder  yet 

Than  every  whimper  of  regret 
That   sobbing  utterance   could   form, 

And  patched  with  scraps  of  sound  that  seemed 

Torn  out  of  tunes  that  demons  dreamed, 

And  pitched  to  such  a  piercing  key, 

It  stabbed  the  ear  with  agony; 

And  when  at  last  it  lulled  and  died, 

I  stood  aghast  and  terrified. 
I  shuddered  and  I  shut  my  eyes, 

And  still  could  see,  and  feel  aware 

Some  mystic  presence  waited  there; 
And  staring,  with  a  dazed  surprise, 

I  saw  a  creature  so  divine 

That  never  subtle  thought  of  mine 

May  reproduce  to  inner  sight 

So  fair  a  vision  of  delight. 

A  syllable  of  dew  that  drips 
From  out  a  lily's  laughing  lips 
Could  not  be  sweeter  than  the  word 
I  listened  to,  yet  never  heard. — 


240  A  FANTASY 

For,  oh,  the  woman  hiding  there 

Within  the  shadows  of  her  hair, 

Spake  to  me  in  an  undertone 

So  delicate,  my  soul  alone 

But  understood  it  as  a  moan 

Of  some  weak  melody  of  wind 

A  heavenward  breeze  had  left  behind. 

A  tracery  of  trees,  grotesque 
Against  the  sky,  behind  her  seen, 

Like  shapeless  shapes  of  arabesque 
Wrought  in  an  Oriental  screen; 

And  tall,  austere  and  statuesque 

She  loomed  before  it — e'en  as  though 

The  spirit-hand  of  Angelo 

Had  chiseled  her  to  life  complete, 

With  chips  of  moonshine  round  her  feet. 

And  I  grew  jealous  of  the  dusk, 
To  see  it  softly  touch  her  face, 
As  lover-like,  with  fond  embrace, 

It  folded  round  her  like  a  husk: 

But  when  the  glitter  of  her  hand, 
Like  wasted  glory,  beckoned  me, 
My  eyes  grew  blurred  and  dull  and  dim- 
My  vision   failed — I  could  not  see — 

I  could  not  stir — I  could  but  stand, 
Till,  quivering  in  every  limb, 
I  flung  me  prone,  as  though  to  swim 


A  FANTASY  241 

The  tide  of  grass  whose  waves  of  green 
Went  rolling  ocean-wide  between 
My  helpless  shipwrecked  heart  and  her 
Who  claimed  me  for  a  worshiper. 

And  writhing  thus  in  my  despair, 
I  heard  a  weird,  unearthly  sound, 
That  seemed  to  lift  me  from  the  ground 

And  hold  me  floating  in  the  air. 

I  looked,  and  lo!  I  saw  her  bow 
Above  a  harp  within  her  hands ; 

A  crown  of  blossoms  bound  her  brow, 
And   on  her  harp   were   twisted   strands 

Of  silken  starlight,  rippling  o'er 

With  music  never  heard  before 

By  mortal  ears ;  and,  at  the  strain, 

I  felt  my  Spirit  snap  its  chain 

And  break  away, — and  I   could   see 

It  as  it  turned  and  fled  from  me 

To   greet   its   mistress,   where   she   smiled 

To  see  the  phantom  dancing  wild 

And  wizard-like  before  the  spell 

Her  mystic  fingers  knew  so  well. 


A  DREAM 

I  DREAMED  I  was  a  spider ; 
A  big,  fat,  hungry  spider ; 
A  lusty,  rusty  spider 

With  a  dozen  palsied  limbs ; 
With  a  dozen  limbs  that  dangled 
Where  three  wretched  flies  were  tangled 
And  their  buzzing  wings  were  strangled 
In  the  middle  of  their  hymns. 

And  I  mocked  them  like  a  demon; 

A  demoniacal  demon 

Who  delights  to  be  a  demon 

For  the  sake  of  sin  alone. 
And  with  fondly  false  embraces 
Did  I  weave  my  mystic  laces 
Round  their  horror-stricken  faces 

Till  I  muffled  every  groan. 

And  I  smiled  to  see  them  weeping, 
For  to  see  an  insect  weeping, 
Sadly,  sorrowfully  weeping, 
Fattens  every  spider's  mirth ; 
242 


A  DREAM  243 

And  to  note  a  fly's  heart  quaking, 
And  with  anguish  ever  aching 
Till  you  see  it  slowly  breaking 
Is  the  sweetest  thing  on  earth. 

I  experienced  a  pleasure, 
Such  a  highly-flavored  pleasure, 
Such  intoxicating  pleasure, 

That  I  drank  of  it  like  wine ; 
And  my  mortal  soul  engages 
That  no  spider  on  the  pages 
Of  the  history  of  ages 

Felt  a  rapture  more  divine. 

I  careened  around  and  capered — 

Madly,  mystically  capered — 

For  three  days  and  nights  I  capered 

Round  my  web  in  wild  delight; 
Till  with  fierce  ambition  burning, 
And  an  inward  thirst  and  yearning 
I  hastened  my  returning 

With  a  fiendish  appetite. 

And  I  found  my  victims  dying, 
"Ha!"  they  whispered,  "we  are  dying!" 
Faintly  whispered,  "we  are  dying, 

And  our  earthly  course  is  run." 
And  the  scene  was  so  impressing 
That  I  breathed  a  special  blessing, 
As  I  killed  them  with  caressing 

And  devoured  them  one  by  one. 


DREAMER,  SAY 

DREAMER,  say,  will  you  dream  for  me 
A  wild  sweet  dream  of  a  foreign  land, 
Whose  border  sips  of  a  foaming  sea 

With  lips  of  coral  and  silver  sand ; 
Where  warm  winds  loll  on  the  shady  deeps, 

Or  lave  themselves  in  the  tearful  mist 
The  great  wild  wave  of  the  breaker  weeps 
O'er  crags  of  opal  and  amethyst  ? 

Dreamer,  say,  will  you  dream  a  dream 

Of  tropic  shades  in  the  lands  of  shine, 
Where  the  lily  leans  o'er  an  amber  stream 

That  flows  like  a  rill  of  wasted  wine, — 
Where   the   palm-trees,   lifting  their   shields   of 
green, 

Parry  the  shafts  of  the  Indian  sun 
Whose  splintering  vengeance  falls  between 

The  reeds  below  where  the  waters  run? 
244 


DREAMER,  SAY  245 

Dreamer,  say,  will  you  dream  of  love 

That  lives  in  a  land  of  sweet  perfume, 
Where  the  stars  drip  down  from  the  skies  above 

In  molten  spatters  of  bud  and  bloom? 
Where  never  the  weary  eyes  are  wet, 

And  never  a  sob  in  the  balmy  air, 
And  only  the  laugh  of  the  paroquet 

Breaks  the  sleep  of  the  silence  there? 


BRYANT 

harp  has  fallen  from  the  master's  hand ; 
A  Mute  is  the  music,  voiceless  are  the  strings, 

Save  such  faint  discord  as  the  wild  wind  flings 
In  sad  ^Eolian  murmurs  through  the  land. 
The  tide  of  melody,  whose  billows  grand 

Flowed  o'er  the  world  in  clearest  utterings, 

Now,  in  receding  current,  sobs  and  sings 
That  song  we  never  wholly  understand. 
*    *    O,  eyes  where  glorious  prophecies  belong, 

And  gracious  reverence  to  humbly  bow, 
And  kingly  spirit,  proud,  and  pure,  and  strong; 

O,  pallid  minstrel  with  the  laureled  brow, 
And  lips  so  long  attuned  to  sacred  song, 

How  sweet  must  be  the  heavenly  anthem  now ! 


246 


BABYHOOD 

HEIGH-HO !  Babyhood !   Tell  me  where  you 
linger ! 

Let's  toddle  home  again,  for  we  have  gone  astray ; 
Take  this  eager  hand  of  mine  and  lead  me  by  the 

ringer 
Back  to  the  lotus-lands  of  the  far-away! 

Turn   back   the   leaves   of    life.— Don't     read   the 
story. — 

Let's  find  the  pictures,  and  fancy  all  the  rest ; 
We  can  fill  the  written  pages  with  a  brighter  glory 

Than  old  Time,  the  story-teller,  at  his  very  best. 

Turn  to  the  brook  where  the  honeysuckle  tipping 
O'er  its  vase  of  perfume  spills  it  on  the  breeze, 
And  the  bee  and  humming-bird  in  ecstacy  are  sip 
ping 

From  the  fairy  flagons  of  the  blooming  locust- 
trees. 

247 


248  BABYHOOD 

Turn  to  the  lane  where  we  used  to  "teeter-totter," 
Printing  little  foot-palms  in  the  mellow  mold — 

Laughing  at  the  lazy  cattle  wading  in  the  water 
Where  the  ripples  dimple  round  the  buttercups  of 
gold  ; 

Where  the  dusky  turtle  lies  basking  on  the  gravel 
Of  the  sunny  sand-bar  in  the  middle  tide, 

And  the  ghostly  dragon-fly  pauses  in  his  travel 
To  rest  like  a  blossom  where  the  water-lily  died. 

Heigh-ho !  Babyhood  !  Tell  me  where  you  linger ! 

Let's  toddle  home  again,  for  we  have  gone  astray ; 
Take  this  eager  hand  of  mine  and  lead  me  by  the 
finger 

Back  to  the  lotus-lands  of  the  far-away ! 


LIBERTY 

NEW   CASTLE,    JULY   4,    1878. 
I 

FVDR  a  hundred  years  the  pulse  of  time 
Has  throbbed  for  Liberty; 
For  a  hundred  years  the  grand  old  clime, 
Columbia  has  been  free ; 

For  a  hundred  years  our  country's  love, 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  has  waved  above. 

Away  far  out  on  the  gulf  of  years — 

Misty  and  faint  and  white 
Through  the  fogs  of  wrong — a  sail  appears, 
And  the  Mayflower  heaves  in  sight, 
And  drifts  again,  with  its  little  flock 
Of  a  hundred  souls,  on  Plymouth  Rock. 

Do  you  see  them  there — as  long,  long  since — 
Through  the  lens  of  History; 
249 


250  LIBERTY 

Do  you  see  them  there  as  their  chieftain  prints 
In  the  snow  his  bended  knee, 

And  lifts  his  voice  through  the  wintry  blast 
In  thanks  for  a  peaceful  home  at  last? 

Though  the  skies  are  dark  and  the  coast  is  bleak, 

And  the  storm  is  wild  and  fierce, 
Its  frozen  flake  on  the  upturned  cheek 
Of  the  Pilgrim  melts  in  tears, 

And  the  dawn  that  springs  from  the  darkness 

there 
Is  the  morning  light  of  an  answered  prayer. 

The  morning  light  of  the  day  of  Peace 

That  gladdens  the  aching  eyes, 
And  gives  to  the  soul  that  sweet  release 
That  the  present  verifies, — 

Nor  a  snow  so  deep,  nor  a  wind  so  chill 
To  quench  the  flame  of  a  freeman's  will! 


II 


Days  of  toil  when  the  bleeding  hand 

Of  the  pioneer  grew  numb, 
When  the  untilled  tracts  of  the  barren  land 
Where  the  weary  ones  had  come 

Could  offer  nought  from  a  fruitful  soil 
To  stay  the  strength  of  the  stranger's  toil. 


LIBERTY  251 

Days  of  pain,  when  the  heart  beat  low, 

And  the  empty  hours  went  by 
Pitiless,  with  the  wail  of  woe 
And  the  moan  of  Hunger's  cry. 

When  the  trembling  hands  upraised  in  prayer 
Had  only  the  strength  to  hold  them  there. 

Days  when  the  voice  of  hope  had  fled — 

Days  when  the  eyes  grown  weak 
Were  folded  to,  and  the  tears  they  shed 
Were  frost  on  a  frozen  cheek — 

When  the   storm  bent   down   from   the   skies 

and  gave 
A  shroud  of  snow  for  the  Pilgrim's  grave. 

Days  at  last  when  the  smiling  sun 

Glanced  down  from  a  summer  sky, 

And  a  music  rang  where  the  rivers  run, 

And  the  waves  went  laughing  by; 

And  the  rose  peeped  over  the  mossy  bank 
While  the  wild  deer  stood  in  the  stream  and 
drank. 

And  the  birds  sang  out  so  loud  and  good, 

In  a  symphony  so  clear 

And  pure  and  sweet  that  the  woodman  stood 
With  his  ax  upraised  to  hear, 

And  to  shape  the  words  of  the  tongue  unknown 
Into  a  language  all  his  own : — 


252  LIBERTY 


Sing!  every  bird,  to-day! 

Sing  for  the  sky  so  clear, 

And  the  gracious  breath  of  the  atmosphere 
Shall  waft  our  cares  away. 
Sing!  sing!  for  the  sunshine  free; 
Sing  through  the  land  from  sea  to  sea; 
Lift  each  voice  in  the  highest  key 
And  sing  for  Liberty! 


Sing  for  the  arms  that  fling 

Their  fetters  in  the  dust 

And  lift  their  hands  in  higher  trust 
Unto  the  one  Great  King; 
Sing  for  the  patriot  heart  and  hand; 
Sing  for  the  country  they  have  planned; 
Sing  that  the  world  may  understand 
This  is  Freedom's  land! 


Sing  in  the  tones  of  prayer, 

Sing  till  the  soaring  soul 

Shall  float  above  the  world's  control 
In  Freedom  everywhere! 


LIBERTY  253 

Sing  for  the  good  that  is  to  be, 
Sing  for  the  eyes  that  are  to  see 
The  land  where  man  at  last  is  free, 
0  sing  for  Liberty! 

Ill 

A  holy  quiet  reigned,  save  where  the  hand 
Of  labor  sent  a  murmur  through  the  land, 
And  happy  voices  in  a  harmony 
Taught  every  lisping  breeze  a  melody. 
A  nest  of  cabins,  where  the  smoke  upctirled 
A  breathing  incense  to  the  other  world. 
A  land  of  languor  from  the  sun  of  noon, 
That  fainted  slowly  to  the  pallid  moon, 
Till   stars,  thick-scattered   in   the  garden-land 
Of  Heaven  by  the  great  Jehovah's  hand, 
Had  blossomed  into  light  to  look  upon 
The  dusky  warrior  with  his  arrow  drawn, 
As  skulking  from  the  covert  of  the  night 
With  serpent  cunning  and  a  fiend's  delight, 
With  murderous  spirit,  and  a  yell  of  hate 
The  voice  of  Hell  might  tremble  to  translate: 
When  the  fond  mother's  tender  lullaby 
Went  quavering  in  shrieks  all  suddenly, 
And  baby-lips  were  dabbled  with  the  stain 
Of  crimson  at  the  bosom  of  the  slain, 
And  peaceful  homes  and  fortunes  ruined — lost 
In  smoldering  embers  of  the  holocaust. 


254  LIBERTY 

Yet  on  and  on,  through  years  of  gloom  and  strife, 
Our  country  struggled  into  stronger  life; 
Till  colonies,  like  footprints  in  the  sand 
Marked  Freedom's  pathway  winding  through  the 

land — 

And  not  the  footprints  to  be  swept  away 
Before  the  storm  we  hatched  in  Boston  Bay, — 
But  footprints  where  the  path  of  war  begun 
That  led  to  Bunker  Hill  and  Lexington, — 
For  he  who  "dared  to  lead  where  others  dared 
To  follow"  found  the  promise  there  declared 
Of  Liberty,  in  blood  of  Freedom's  host 
Baptized  to  Father,  Son  and  Holy  Ghost ! 

Oh,  there  were  times  when  every  patriot  breast 
Was  riotous  with  sentiments  expressed 
In  tones  that  swelled  in  volume  till  the  sound 
Of  lusty  war  itself  was  well-nigh  drowned. 
Oh,  those  were  times  when  happy  eyes  with  tears 
Brimmed  o'er  as  all  the  misty  doubts  and  fears 
Were  washed  away,  and  Hope  with  gracious  mien, 
Reigned  from  her  throne  again  a  sovereign  queen 
Until  at  last,  upon  a  day  like  this 
When  flowers  were  blushing  at  the  summer's  kiss, 
And  when  the  sky  was  cloudless  as  the  face 
Of  some  sweet  infant  in  its  angel  grace, — 
There  came  a  sound  of  music,  thrown  afloat 
Upon  the  balmy  air — a  clanging  note 
Reiterated  from  the  brazen  throat 


LIBERTY  255 

Of  Independence  Bell:    A  sound  so  sweet, 
The  clamoring  throngs  of  people  on  the  streets 
Were  stilled  as  at  the  solemn  voice  of  prayer, 
And  heads  were  bowed,  and  lips  were  moving  there 
That  made  no  sound — until  the  spell  had  passed, 
And  then,  as  when  all  sudden  comes  the  blast 
Of  some  tornado,  came  the  cheer  on  cheer 
Of  every  eager  voice,  while  far  and  near 
The  echoing  bells  upon  the  atmosphere 
Set  glorious  rumors  floating,  till  the  ear 
Of  every  listening  patriot  tingled  clear, 
And  thrilled  with  joy  and  jubilee  to  hear. 


Stir  all  your  echoes  up, 

O  Independence  Bell, 
And  pour  from  your  inverted  cup 

The  song  we  love  so  well. 

Lift  high  your  happy  voice, 
And  swing  your  iron  tongue 

Till  syllables  of  praise  rejoice 
That  never  yet  were  sung. 

Ring  in  the  gleaming  dawn 
Of  Freedom — Toll  the  knell 

Of  Tyranny,  and  then  ring  on, 
0  Independence  Bell. — 


256  LIBERTY 

Ring  on,  and  drown  the  moan 

Above  the  patriot  slain 
Till  sorrow's  voice  shall  catch  the  tone 

And  join  the  glad  refrain. 

Ring  out  the  wounds  of  wrong 
And  rankle  in  the  breast; 

Your  music  like  a  slumber-song 
Will  lull  revenge  to  rest. 

Ring  out  from  Occident 

To  Orient,  and  peal 
From  continent  to  continent 

The  mighty  joy  you  feel. 

Ring!  Independence  Bell! 

Ring  on  till  worlds  to  be 
Shall  listen  to  the  tale  you  tell 

Of  love  and  Liberty! 


IV 


O  Liberty — the  dearest  word 
A  bleeding  country  ever  heard, — 
We  lay  our  hopes  upon  thy  shrine 
And  offer  up  our  lives  for  thine. 
You  gave  us  many  happy  years 
Of  peace  and  plenty  ere  the  tears 
A  mourning  country  wept  were  dried 
Above  the  graves  of  those  who  died 


LIBERTY  257 

Upon  thy  threshold.     And  again 

When  newer  wars  were  bred,  and  men 

Went  marching  in  the  cannon's  breath 

And  died  for  thee  and  loved  the  death, 

While,  high  above  them,  gleaming  bright, 

The  dear  old  flag  remained  in  sight, 

And  lighted  up  their  dying  eyes 

With  smiles  that  brightened  paradise. 

O  Liberty,  it  is  thy  power 

To  gladden  us  in  every  hour 

Of  gloom,  and  lead  us  by  thy  hand 

As  little  children  through  a  land 

Of  bud  and  blossom ;  while  the  days 

Are  filled  with  sunshine,  and  thy  praise 

Is  warbled  in  the  roundelays 

Of  joyous  birds,  and  in  the  song 

Of  waters,  murmuring  along 

The  paths  of  peace,  whose  flowery  fringe 

Has  roses  finding  deeper  tinge 

Of  crimson,  looking  on  themselves 

Reflected — leaning  from  the  shelves 

Of  cliff  and  crag  and  mossy  mound 

Of  emerald  splendor  shadow-drowned. — 

We  hail  thy  presence,  as  you  come 

With  bugle  blast  and  rolling  drum, 

And  booming  guns  and  shouts  of  glee 

Commingled  in  a  symphony 

That  thrills  the  worlds  that  throng  to  see 

The  glory  of  thy  pageantry. 


258  LIBERTY 

And  with  thy  praise,  we  breathe  a  prayer 
That  God  who  leaves  you  in  our  care 
May  favor  us  from  this  day  on 
With  thy  dear  presence — till  the  dawn 
Of  Heaven,  breaking  on  thy  face, 
Lights  up  thy  first  abiding  place. 


Old  Seminary  at  Greenfield  where  Riley  attended  school  and  later 
lived  for  a  time 


TOM  VAN  ARDEN 

TOM  VAN  ARDEN,  my  old  friend, 
Our  warm  fellowship  is  one 
Far  too  old  to  comprehend 

Where  its  bond  was  first  begun: 
Mirage-like  before  my  gaze 
Gleams  a  land  of  other  days,   y 
Where  two  truant  boys,  astray, 
Dream  their  lazy  lives  away. 

There's  a  vision,  in  the  guise 

Of   Midsummer,   where  the  Past 
Like  a  weary  beggar  lies 

In  the  shadow  Time  has  cast ; 
And  as  blends  the  bloom  of  trees 
With  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees, 
Fragrant  thoughts  and  murmurs  blend, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 
All  the  pleasures  we  have  known 

Thrill  me  now  as  I  extend 

This  old  hand  and  grasp  your  own — 
259 


260  TOM  VAN  ARDEN 

Feeling,  in  the  rude  caress, 
All  affection's  tenderness; 
Feeling,  though  the  touch  be  rough, 
Our  old  souls  are  soft  enough. 

So  we'll  make  a  mellow  hour : 

Fill  your  pipe,  and  taste  the  wine — 
Warp  your  face,  if  it  be  sour, 
I  can  spare  a  smile  from  mine ; 
If  it  sharpen  up  your  wit, 
Let  me  feel  the  edge  of  it — 
I  have  eager  ears  to  lend, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 
Are  we  "lucky  dogs,"  indeed? 
Are  we  all  that  we  pretend 
In  the  jolly  life  we  lead? — 
Bachelors,  we  must  confess, 
Boast  of  "single  blessedness" 
To  the  world,  but  not  alone — 
Man's  best  sorrow  is  his  own! 

And  the  saddest  truth  is  this, — 

Life  to  us  has  never  proved 
What  we  tasted  in  the  kiss 

Of  the  women  we  have  loved: 
Vainly  we  congratulate 
Our  escape  from  such  a  fate 
As  their  lying  lips  could  send, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend! 


TOM  VAN  ARDEN  261 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 

Hearts,  like  fruit  upon  the  stem, 
Ripen  sweetest,  I  contend, 
As  the  frost  falls  over  them: 
Your  regard  for  me  to-day 
Makes  November  taste  of  May, 
And  through  every  vein  of  rhyme 
Pours  the  blood  of  summer-time. 

When  our  souls  are  cramped  with  youth 

Happiness  seems  far  away 
In  the  future,  while,  in  truth, 
We  look  back  on  it  to-day 
Through  our  tears,  nor  dare  to  boast, — 
"Better  to  have  loved  and  lost !" 
Broken  hearts  are  hard  to  mend, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 

I  grow  prosy,  and  you  tire ; 
Fill  the  glasses  while  I  bend 

To  prod  up  the  failing  fire.    .    .    . 
You  are  restless: — I  presume 
There's  a  dampness  in  the  room. — 
Much  of  warmth  our  nature  begs, 
With  rheumatics  in  our  legs!    .    .    . 

Humph !  the  legs  we  used  to  fling 

Limber-jointed  in  the  dance, 
When  we  heard  the  fiddle  ring 

Up  the  curtain  of  Romance, 


262  TOM  VAN  ARDEN 

And  in  crowded  public  halls 
Played  with  hearts  like  jugglers'  balls. — 
Feats  of  mountebanks,  depend! — 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 

Pardon,  then,  this  theme  of  mine: 
While  the  firelight  leaps  to  lend 
Higher  color  to  the  wine, — 
I  propose  a  health  to  those 
Who  have  homes,  and  home's  repose, 
Wife-  and  child-love  without  end ! 
.   .    .   Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 


T.  C.  PHILIPS 

O  NOBLE  heart,  and  brave  impetuous  hand ! 
So  all  engrossed  in  work  of  public  weal 
Thou  couldst  not  pause  thy  own  distress  to  feel 

While  maladies  of  Wrong  oppressed  the  land. 

The  hopes  that  marshaled  at  thy  pen's  command 
To  cheer  the  Right,  had  not  the  power  to  heal 
The  ever-aching  wounds  thou  didst  conceal 

Beneath  a  front  so  stoically  bland 

That  no  one  guessed  thy  inward  agony, — 
Until  the  Master,  leaning  from  his  throne, 
Heard  some  soul  wailing  in  an  undertone, 

And  bending  lower  down,  discovered  thee, 
And  clasped  thy  weary  hand  within  His  own 

And  lifted  thee  to  rest  eternally. 


263 


A  DREAM  UNFINISHED 


ONLY  a  dream  unfinished ;  only  a  form  at  rest 
With  weary  hands  clasped  lightly  over  a  peace 
ful  breast. 


And  the  lonesome   light  of   summer  through  the 

open  doorway  falls, 
But  it  wakes  no  laugh  in  the  parlor — no  voice  in 

the  vacant  halls. 

It  throws  no  spell  of  music  over  the  slumbrous  air ; 
It  meets  no  step  on  the  carpet — no  form  in  the 
easy  chair. 

It  finds  no  queenly  presence  blessing  the  solitude 
With  the  gracious  benediction  of  royal  womanhood. 

It  finds   no   willowy   figure   tilting   the   cage   that 

swings 
With  the  little  pale  canary  that  forgets  the  song 

he  sings. 

264 


A  DREAM  UNFINISHED  265 

No  face  at  the  open  window  to  welcome  the  fra 
grant  breeze; 

No  touch  at  the  old  piano  to  waken  the  sleeping 
keys. 

The  idle  book  lies  open,  and  the   folded  leaf  is 

pressed 
Over  the  half-told  story  while   death   relates  the 

rest. 

Only  a  dream  unfinished;  only  a  form  at  rest, 
With  weary  hands  clasped  lightly  over  a  peaceful 
breast. 

The  light  steals  into  the  corner  where  the  darkest 

shadows  are, 
And  sweeps  with  its  golden  fingers  the  strings  of 

the  mute  guitar. 

And  over  the  drooping  mosses  it  clambers  the  rus 
tic  stand, 

And  over  the  ivy's  tresses  it  trails  a  trembling 
hand. 

But  it  brings  no  smile  from  the  darkness — it  calls 

no  face  from  the  gloom — 
No  song  flows  out  of  the  silence  that  aches  in  the 

empty  room. 


266  A  DREAM  UNFINISHED 

And  we  look  in  vain  for  the  dawning  in  the  depths 

of  our  despair, 
Where  the  weary  voice  goes  wailing  through  the 

empty  aisles  of  prayer. 

And  the  hands  reach  out  through  the  darkness  for 

the  touches  we  have  known 
When  the  icy  palms  lay  warmly  in  the  pressure  of 

our  own. 

When  the  folded  eyes  were  gleaming  with  a  glory 

God  designed 
To  light  a  way  to  Heaven  by  the  smiles  they  left 

behind. 

Only  a  dream  unfinished;  only  a  form  at  rest, 
With  weary  hands  clasped  lightly  over  a  peaceful 
breast. 


A  CHILD'S  HOME— LONG  AGO 

READ   AT    AN   OLD   SETTLERS'    MEETING   AT    OAKLAND, 
INDIANA,  AUGUST  3,  1878. 

THE  terse  old  maxim  of  the  poet's  pen, 
"What  constitutes  a  state?  High-minded  men," 
Holds  such  a  wealth  of  truth,  when  one  reflects, 
It  seems  more  like  a  sermon  than  a  text. 
Yet  looking  dimly  backward  o'er  the  years 
Where  first  the  face  of  progress,  through  our  tears, 
Smiles  on  us,  where  within  the  forest  gloom 
The  bud  of  Indiana  bursts  in  bloom; 
We  can  but  see,  from  Lake  of  Michigan, 
To  where  Ohio  rolls,  the  work  of  man — 
From  where  our  eastern  boundary-line  is  pressed, 
To  where  the  Wabash  revels  on  the  west ; 
A  broad  expanse  of  fair  and  fertile  land, 
Like  some  rich  landscape,  from  a  master's  hand, 
That  in  its  rustic  frame,  we  well  might  call 
The  fairest  picture  on  Columbia's  wall — • 
A  picture  now — a  masterpiece  divine, 
That,  ere  the  artist's  hand  in  its  design 
267 


268  A  CHILD'S  HOME— LONG  AGO 

Had  traced  this  loveliness,  was  but  a  blot 

Of  ugly  pigment  on  a  barren  spot — 

A  blur  of  color  on  a  hueless  ground 

Where  scarce  a  hint  of  beauty  could  be  found. 

But  patiently  the  hand  of  labor  wrought, 

And  from  each  touch  new  inspiration  caught; 

Toiled  on  through  disadvantages  untold, 

And  at  each  onward  step  found  firmer  hold, 

And  obstacles  that  threatened  long  delay 

He  climbed  above  and  went  upon  his  way, 

Until  at  last,  exulting,  he  could  see 

The  sweet  reward  of  patient  industry; 

And  beauties  he  had  hardly  dared  to  dream, 

In  hill  and  vale,  and  cliff  and  winding  stream, 

Spread  out  before  his  vision,  till  the  soul 

Within  him  seemed  to  leap  beyond  control, 

And  hover  over  lands  the  genii  made 

Of  sifted  sunshine  and  of  dew-washed  shade. 

And  who,  indeed,  that  loves  his  native  state, 
Has  not  a  heart  to  throb  and  palpitate 
With  ecstacy,  as  o'er  her  wintry  past, 
He  sees  the  sun  of  summer  dawn  at  last, 
And  catches,  through  the  misty  shower  of  light, 
Dim  glimpses  of  the  orchards'  bloom  of  white, 
And  fields  beyond  where,  waving  empty  sleeves, 
The  "scarecrow"  beckons  to  the  feathered  thieves 
That  perch,  and  perk  their  nimble  heads  away, 
And  flit  away  with  harsh,  discordant  cry, 
Or  shading  with  his  hand,  his  dazzled  eyes, 
Looks  out  across  the  deadened  paradise, 


A  CHILD'S  HOME— LONG  AGO  269 

Where  wild  flowers  blossom,  and  the  ivy  clings, 
And  from  the  ruined  oak  the  grapevine  swings, 
While  high  above  upon  the  leafless  tree 
The  red-head  drummer  beats  his  reveille, 
And,  like  an  army  thronging  at  the  sound, 
The  soldier  corn-stalks  on  their  battle-ground 
March  on  to  harvest  victories,  and  flaunt 
Their  banners  o'er  the  battlements  of  want ! 

And  musing  thus  to-day,  the  pioneer 

Whose  brawny  arm  has  grubbed  a  pathway  here, 

Stands,  haply;  with  his  vision  backward  turned 

To  where  the  log-heap  of  the  past  was  burned, 

And  sees  again,  as  in  some  shadowy  dream, 

The  wild  deer  bending  o'er  the  hidden  stream, 

Or  sniffing,  with  his  antlers  lifted  high, 

The  gawky  crane,  as  he  comes  trailing  by, 

And  drops  in  shallow  tides  below  to  wade 

On  tilting  legs  through  dusky  depths  of  shade, 

While  just  across  the  glossy  otter  slips 

Like  some  wet  shadow  'neath  the  ripple's  lips 

As,  drifting  from  the  thicket-hid  bayou, 

The  wild  duck  paddles  past  his  rendezvous, 

And  overhead  the  beech  and  sycamore, 

That  lean  their  giant  forms  from  either  shore, 

Clasp  hands  and  bow  their  heads,  as  though  to  bless 

In  whispered  prayer  the  sleeping  wilderness. 

A  scene  of  such  magnificent  expanse 

Of  nameless  grandeur  that  the  utterance 

Of  even  feathered  orators  is  faint. 

For  here  the  dove's  most  melancholy  plaint 


270  A  CHILD'S  HOME— LONG  AGO 

Invokes  no  echo,  and  the  killdeer's  call 

Swoons  in  the  murmur  of  the  waterfall 

That,  faint  and  far  away  and  undefined, 

Falls  like  a  ghost  of  sound  upon  the  mind. 

The  voice  of  nature's  very  self  drops  low, 

As  though  she  whispered  of  the  long  ago, 

When  down  the  wandering  stream  the  rude  canoe 

Of  some  lone  trapper  glided  into  view, 

And  loitered  down  the  watery  path  that  led 

Through  forest  depths  that  only  knew  the  tread 

Of  savage  beasts ;  and  wild  barbarians 

That  skulked  about  with  blood  upon  their  hands 

And  murder  in  their  hearts.     The  light  of  day 

Might  barely  pierce  the  gloominess  that  lay 

Like  some  dark  pall  across  the  water's  face, 

And  folded  all  the  land  in  its  embrace ; 

The  panther's  whimper,  and  the  bear's  low  growl — 

The  snake's  sharp  rattle,  and  the  wolf's  wild  howl ; 

The  owl's  grim  chuckle,  as  it  rose  and  fell 

In  alternation  with  the  Indian's  yell, 

Made  fitting  prelude  for  the  gory  plays 

That  were  enacted  in  the  early  days. 

But  fancy,  soaring  o'er  the  storm  of  grief 

Like  that  lone  bird  that  brought  the  olive  leaf, 

Brings  only  peace — an  amulet  whose  spell 

Works  stranger  marvels  than  the  tongue  can  tell — 

For  o'er  the  vision,  like  a  mirage,  falls 

The  old  log  cabin  with  its  dingy  walls, 

And  crippled  chimney  with  its  crutch-like  prop 

Beneath  a  sagging  shoulder  at  the  top: 


A  CHILD'S  HOME— LONG  AGO  271 

The  coonskin  battened  fast  on  either  side — 

The  wisps  of  leaf-tobacco — "cut-and-dried" ; 

The  yellow  strands  of  quartered  apples,  hung 

In  rich  festoons  that  tangle  in  among 

The  morning-glory  vines  that  clamber  o'er 

The  little  clapboard  roof  above  the  door: 

The  old  well-sweep  that  drops  a  courtesy 

To  every  thirsting  soul  so  graciously, 

The  stranger,  as  he  drains  the  dripping  gourd, 

Intuitively  murmurs,  "Thank  the  Lord!" 

Again  through  mists  of  memory  arise 

The  simple  scenes  of  home  before  the  eyes : — 

The  happy  mother,  humming,  with  her  wheel, 

The  dear  old  melodies  that  used  to  steal 

So  drowsily  upon  the  summer  air, 

The  house-dog  hid  his  bone,  forgot  his  care, 

And  nestled  at  her  feet,  to  dream,  perchance, 

Some  cooling  dream  of  winter-time  romance: 

The  square  of  sunshine  through  the  open  door 

That  notched  its  edge  across  the  puncheon  floor, 

And  made  a  golden  coverlet  whereon 

The  god  of  slumber  had  a  picture  drawn 

Of  Babyhood,  in  all  the  loveliness 

Of  dimpled  cheek  and  limb  and  linsey  dress : 

The  bough-filled  fireplace,  and  the  mantel  wide, 

Its  fire-scorched  ankles  stretched  on  either  side, 

Where,  perched  upon  its  shoulders  'neath  the  joist, 

The  old  clock  hiccoughed,  harsh  and  husky-voiced, 

And  snarled  the  premonition,  dire  and  dread, 

When  it  should  hammer  Time  upon  the  head : 


272  A- CHILD'S  HOME— LONG  AGO 

Tomatoes,  red  and  yellow,  in  a  row, 

Preserved  not  then  for  diet,  but  for  show, — 

Like  rare  and  precious  jewels  in  the  rough 

Whose  worth  was  not  appraised  at  half  enough : 

The  jars  of  jelly,  with  their  dusty  tops; 

The  bunch  of  pennyroyal ;  the  cordial  drops ; 

The  flask  of  camphor,  and  the  vial  of  squills, 

The  box  of  buttons,  garden-seeds,  and  pills; 

And,  ending  all  the  mantel's  bric-a-brac, 

The  old,  time-honored  "Family  Almanack." 

And  Memory,  with  a  mother's  touch  of  love, 

Climbs  with  us  to  the  dusky  loft  above, 

Where  drowsily  we  trail  our  fingers  in 

The  mealy  treasures  of  the  harvest  bin ; 

And,  feeling  with  our  hands  the  open  track, 

We  pat  the  bag  of  barley  on  the  back ; 

And,  groping  onward  through  the  mellow  gloom, 

We  catch  the  hidden  apple's  faint  perfume, 

And,  mingling  with  it,  fragrant  hints  of  pear 

And  musky  melon  ripening  somewhere. 

Again  we  stretch  our  limbs  upon  the  bed 

Where  first  our  simple  childish  prayers  were  said ; 

And  while,  without,  the  gallant  cricket  trills 

A  challenge  to  the  solemn  whippoorwills, 

And,  filing  on  the  chorus  with  his  glee, 

The  katydid  whets  all  the  harmony 

To  feather-edge  of  incoherent  song, 

We  drop  asleep,  and  peacefully  along 

The  current  of  our  dreams  we  glide  away 

To  the  dim  harbor  of  another  day, 


A  CHILD'S  HOME— LONG  AGO  273 

Where  brown  toil  waits  for  us,  and  where  labor 

stands 
To  welcome  us  with  rough  and  horny  hands. 

And  who  will  mock  the  rude,  unpolished  ways 
That  swayed  us  in  the  good  old-fashioned  days 
When  labor  wore  the  badge  of  manhood,  set 
Upon  his  tawny  brow  in  pearls  of  sweat  ? 
Who  dares  to-day  to  turn  a  scornful  eye 
On  labor  in  his  swarthy  majesty? 
Or  wreathe  about  his  lips  the  sneer  of  pride 

!  Where  brawny  toil  stands  towering  at  his  side  ? 

i  By  industry  alone  we  gauge  the  worth 
Of  all  the  richer  nations  of  the  earth; 
And  side  by  side  with  honesty  and  toil 
Prosperity  walks  round  the  furrowed  soil 
That  belts  the  world,  and  o'er  the  ocean  ledge 
Tilts  up  the  horn  of  plenty  on  its  edge. 

I  'Tis  not  the  subject  fawning  to  the  king, 

j  'Tis  not  the  citizen,  low  cowering 
Before  the  throne  of  state. — 'Twas  God's  intent 

,  Each  man  should  be  a  king — a  president ; 

I  And  while  through  human  veins  the  blood  of  pride 
Shall  ebb  and  flow  in  Labor's  rolling  tide, 
The  brow  of  toil  shall  wear  the  diadem, 
And  justice  gleaming  there,  the  central  gem, 
Shall  radiate  the  time  when  we  shall  see 
Each  man  rewarded  as  his  works  shall  be. 
Thank  God  for  this  bright  promise !   Lift  the  voice 
Till  all  the  waiting  multitudes  rejoice; 


274  A  CHILD'S  HOME— LONG  AGO 

Reach  out  across  the  sea  and  clap  your  hands 
Till  voices  waken  out  of  foreign  lands 
To  join  the  song,  while  listening  Heaven  waits 
To  roll  an  answering  anthem  through  the  gates. 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF  THE  NIGHT 


"A  thynge  of  wytchencreft — an  idle  dreme. 


the  Song's  sake;  even  so: 
Humor  it,  and  let  it  go 
All  untamed  and  wild  of  wing — 
Leave  it  ever  truanting. 

Be  its  night  elusive! — Lo, 
For  the  Song's  sake — even  so. — 
Yield  it  but  an  car  as  kind 
As  thou  perkest  to  the  tvind. 

Who  will  name  us  what  the  seas 
Have  sung  on  for  centuries? 
For  the  Song's  sake!    Even  so — 
Sing,  O  Seas!  and  Breezes,  blow! 

Sing!  or  Wave  or  Wind  or  Bird— 
'Sing!  nor  ever  afterward 
Clear  thy  meaning  to  us — No! — 
For  the  Song's  sake.    Even  so. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

KRUNG  King—  of  the  Spirks 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

The  Queen — Second  Consort  to  Krung 
SPRAIVOLL  The  Tune-Fool 

AMPHINE  Prince — Son  of  Krung 

DWAINIE  A  Princess — of  the  Wunks 

JUCKLET  A  Dwarf — of  the  Spirks 

CREECH  and 

GRITCHFANG  Nightmares 

Counselors,  Courtiers,  Heralds,  etc. 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF  THE  NIGHT 
ACT  I 

PLACE — THE  FLYING  ISLANDS 

SCENE  I.  Spirkland.  Time,  Moondawn.  Interior 
Court  of  KRUNG.  A  vast,  pendant  star  burns 
dimly  in  dome  above  throne.  CRESTILLOMEEM 
discovered  languidly  reclining  at  foot  of  empty 
throne,  an  overturned  goblet  lying  near,  as 
though  just  drained.  The  Queen,  in  seeming 
dazed,  ecstatic  state,  raptly  gazing  upward,  lis 
tening.  Swarming  forms  and  features  in  air 
above,  seen  eeriely  coming  and  going,  blend- 
ing  and  intermingling  in  domed  ceiling-spaces 
of  court.  Weird  music.  Mystic,  luminous,  beau 
tiful  faces  detached  from  swarm,  float  singly 
forward, — tremulously,  and  in  succession, 
poising  in  mid-air  and  chanting. 

FIRST  FACE 

And  who  hath  known  her — like   as  7 
Have  known  her? — since  the  envying  sky 
279 


280      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE   NIGHT 

Filched  from  her  cheeks  its  morning  hue, 
And  from  her  eyes  its  glory,  too, 
Of  dazzling  shine  and  diamond-dew. 

SECOND  FACE 

7  knew  her — long  and  long  before 
High  JEo  loosed  her  palm  and  thought : 
"What  awful  splendor  have  I  wrought 
To  dazzle  earth  and  Heaven,  too !" 

THIRD  FACE 

I  knew  her — long  ere  Night  was  o'er — 
Ere  ^Eo  yet  conjectured  what 
To  fashion  Day  of — ay,  before 
He  sprinkled  stars  across  the  floor 
Of  dark,  and  swept  that  form  of  mine, 
E'en  as  a  fleck  of  blinded  shine, 
Back  to  the  black  where  light  was  not. 

FOURTH  FACE 

Ere  day  was  dreamt,  I  saw  her  face 
Lift  from  some  starry  hiding-place 
Where  our  old  moon  was  kneeling  while 
She  lit  its  features  with  her  smile. 

FIFTH  FACE 

I  knew  her  while  these  islands  yet 
Were  nestlings — ere  they  feathered  wing, 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS  OF   THE   NIGHT      281 

Or  e'en  could  gape  with  them  or  get 

Apoise  the  laziest-ambling  breeze, 

Or  cheep,  chirp  out,  or  anything! 

When  Time  crooned  rhymes  of  nurseries 

Above  them — nodded,  dozed  and  slept, 

And  knew  it  not,  till,  wakening, 

The  morning  stars  agreed  to  sing 

And  Heaven's  first  tender  dews  were  wept. 

SIXTH  FACE 

I  knew  her  when  the  jealous  hands 
Of  Angels  set  her  sculptured  form 
Upon  a  pedestal  of  storm 
And  let  her  to  this  land  with  strands 
Of   twisted   lightnings. 

SEVENTH  FACE 

And  I  heard 

Her  voice  ere  she  could  tone  a  word 
Of  any  but  the  Seraph-tongue. — 
And  O  sad-sweeter  than  all  sung- 
Or  word-said  things ! — to  hear  her  say, 
Between  the  tears  she  dashed  away : — 
"Lo,  launched  from  the  offended  sight 
Of  JEol — anguish  infinite 
Is  ours,  O  Sisterhood  of  Sin! 
Yet  is  thy  service  mine  by  right, 
And,  sweet  as  I  may  rule  it,  thus 


282      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE   NIGHT 

Shall  Sin's  myrrh-savor  taste  to  us — 
Sin's  Empress — let  my  reign  begin !" 


CHORUS  OF  SWARMING  FACES 

We  follow  thee  forever  on! 

Through  darkest  night  and  dimmest  dawn ; 

Through    storm    and   calm — through    shower    and 
shine, 

Hear  thou  our  voices  answering  thine: 
We  follow — craving  but  to  be 
Thy   followers. — We   follow  thee — 
We  follow,  follow,  follow  thee! 

We  follow  ever  on  and  on — 

O'er  hill  and  hollow,  brake  and  lawn ; 

Through  gruesome  vale  and  dread  ravine 

Where  light  of  day  is  never  seen. — 
We  waver  not  in  loyalty, — 
Unfaltering  we  follow  thee — 
We  follow,   follow,   follow  thee! 

We  follow  ever  on  and  on! 
The  shroud  of  night  around  us  drawn, 
Though  wet  with  mists,  is  wild-ashine 
With  stars  to  light  that  path  of  thine; — 

The  glowworms,  too,  befriend  us — we 
Shall  fail  not  as  we  follow  thee. 
We  follow,  follow,  follow  thee! 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE   NIGHT      283 

We  follow  ever  on  and  on. — 

The  notched  reeds  we  pipe  upon 

Are  pithed  with  music,  keener  blown 

And  blither  where  thou  leadest  lone — 
Glad  pangs  of  its  ecstatic  glee 
Shall  reach  thee  as  we  follow  thee. 
We  follow,  follow,  follow  thee ! 

We  follow  ever  on  and  on: 

We  know  the  ways  thy  feet  have  gone, — 

The  grass  is  greener,  and  the  bloom 

Of  roses  richer  in  perfume — 

And  the  birds  of  every  blooming  tree 
Sing  sweeter  as  we  follow  thee. 
We  follow,  follow,  follow  thee! 

We  follow  ever  on  and  on; 

For  wheresoever  thou  hast  gone 

We  hasten  joyous,  knowing  there 

Is  sweeter  sin  than  otherwhere — 

Leave  still  its  latest  cup,  that  we 
May  drain  it  as  we  follow  thee. 
We  follow,  follow,  follow  thee! 

[Throughout  final  stanzas,  faces  in  foreground  and 
forms  in  background  slowly  vanish,  and  voices 
gradually  fail  to  sheer  silence. — CRESTILLO- 
MEEM  rises  and  wistfully  gazes  and  listens; 
then,  evidently  regaining  wonted  self,  looks  to 
be  assured  of  being  wholly  alone — then  speaks .] 


284      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 
CRESTILLOMEEM 

The  Throne  is  throwing  wide  its  gilded  arms 

To  welcome  me.    The  Throne  of  Krung !  Ha !  ha ! 

Leap  up,  ye  lazy  echoes,  and  laugh  loud! 

For  I,  Crestillomeem,  the  Queen — ha !  ha ! 

Do  fling  my  richest  mirth  into  your  mouths 

That  ye  may  fatten  ripe  with  mockery ! 

I  marvel  what  the  kingdom  would  become 

Were  I  not  here  to  nurse  it  like  a  babe 

And  dandle  it  above  the  reach  and  clutch 

Of  intermeddlers  in  the  royal  line 

And  their  attendant  serfs.     Ho!  Jucklet,  ho! 

'Tis  time  my  knarled  warp  of  nice  anatomy 

Were  here,  to  weave  us  on  upon  our  mesh 

Of  silken  villanies.    Ho!  Jucklet,  ho! 

[Lifts  secret  door  in  pave  and  drops  a  star-bud 
through  opening.  Enter  JUCKLET  from  below.] 

JUCKLET 

Spang  sprit!  my  gracious  Queen!  but  thou  hast 

scorched 

My  left  ear  to  a  cinder !  and  my  head 
Rings  like  a  ding-dong  on  the  coast  of  death ! 
For,  patient  hate !  thy  hasty  signal  burst 
Full  in  my  face  as  hitherward  I  came ! 
But  though  my  lug  be  fried  to  crisp,  and  my 
Singed  wig  stinks  like  a  little  sun-stewed  Wunk, 
I  stretch  my  fragrant  presence  at  thy  feet 
And  kiss  thy  sandal  with  a  blistered  lip. 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT      285 
CRESTILLOMEEM 

Hold !  rare-done  fool,  lest  I  may  bid  the  cook 

To  bake  thee  brown !   How  fares  the  King  by  this  ? 

JUCKLET 

Safe  couched  midmost  his  lordly  hoard  of  books, 

I  left  him  sleeping  like  a  quinsied  babe 

Next  the  guest-chamber  of  a  poor  man's  house: 

But  ere  I  came  away,  to  rest  mine  ears, 

I  salved  his  welded  lids,  uncorked  his  nose, 

And  o'er  the  odorous  blossom  of  his  lips 

Re-squeezed  the  tinctured  sponge,  and  felt  his  pulse 

Come   staggering  back   to   regularity. 

And  four  hours  hence  his  Highness  will  awake 

And  Peace  will  take  a  nap ! 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

H a !  What  mean  you  ? 
JUCKLET    [Ominously] 

I  mean  that  he  suspects  our  knaveries. — 
Some  covert  spy  is  burrowed  in  the  court — 
Nay,  and  I  pray  thee  startle  not  aloud, 
But  mute  thy  very  heart  in  its  out-throb, 
And  let  the  blanching  of  thy  cheeks  but  be 
A  whispering  sort  of  pallor! 


286      THE   FLYING   ISLANDS   OF    THE  NIGHT 
CRESTILLOMEEM 

A   spy  ? — Here  ? 
JUCKLET 

Ay,  here — and  haply  even  now.    And  one 
Whose  unseen  eye  seems  ever  focused  keen 
Upon  our  action,  and  whose  hungering  ear 
Eats  every  crumb  of  counsel  that  we  drop 
In  these  our  secret  interviews ! — For  he — 
The  King — through  all  his  talking-sleep  to-day 
Hath  jabbered  of  intrigue,  conspiracy — 
Of  treachery  and  hate  in  fellowship, 
With  dire  designs  upon  his  royal  bulk, 
To  oust  it  from  the  Throne. 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

He  spake  my  name  ? 

JUCKLET 

O  Queen,  he  speaks  not  ever  but  thy  name 

Makes  melody  of  every  sentence. — Yea, 

He  thinks  thee  even  true  to  him  as  thou 

Art  fickle,  false  and  subtle!     O  how  blind 

And  lame,  and  deaf  and  dumb,  and  worn  and  weak, 

And  faint,  and  sick,  and  all-commodious 

His  dear  love  is !    In  sooth,  O  wifely  one, 

Thy  malleable  spouse  doth  mind  me  of 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS  OF   THE   NIGHT      287 

That  pliant  hero  of  the  bald  old  catch 

"The  Lovely  Husband."— Shall  I  wreak  the  thing? 

[Sings — with  much  affected  gravity  and  grimace] 

O  a  lovely  husband  he  was  known, 

He  loved  his  wife  and  her  a-lone; 

She  reaped  the  harvest  he  had  sown; 

She  ate  the  meat;  he  picked  the  bone. 
With  mixed  admirers  every  size, 
She  smiled  on  each  without  disguise ; 
This  lovely  husband  closed  his  eyes 
Lest  he  might  take  her  by  surprise. 

[Aside,  exclamatory} 
Chorious  uproarious ! 

[Then  pantomime  as  though  pulling  at  bell-rope — 

singing  in  pent,  explosive  utterance] 
Trot! 

Run! 

Wasn't  he  a  handy  hubby? 

What 
Fun 

She  could  plot  and  plan! 
Not 

One 

Other  such  a  dandy  hubby 
As  this  lovely  man! 


288      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE  NIGHT 
CRESTILLOMEEM 

Or  talk  or  tune,  wilt  thou  wind  up  thy  tongue 
Nor  let  it  tangle  in  a  knot  of  words ! 
What  said  the  King? 

JUCKLET  [With  recovered  reverence} 

He  said :  "Crestillomeem — 
O  that  she  knew  this  thick  distress  of  mine! — 
Her  counsel  would  anoint  me  and  her  voice 
Would  flow  in  limpid  wisdom  o'er  my  woes 
And,  like  a  love-balm,  lave  my  secret  grief 
And    lull   my   sleepless   heart!"     [Aside]  And  so 

went  on, 

Struggling  all  maudlin  in  the  wrangled  web 
That  well-nigh  hath  cocooned  him! 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

Did  he  yield 

No  hint  of  this  mysterious  distress 
He  needs  must  hold  sequestered  from  his  Queen? 
What  said  he  in  his  talking-sleep  by  which 
Some  clue  were  gained  of  how  and  when   and 

whence 
His  trouble  came? 

JUCKLET 

In  one  strange  phase  he  spake 
As  though  some  sprited  lady  talked  with  him. — 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE  NIGHT      289 

Full  courteously  he  said:  "In  woman's  guise 

Thou  comest,  yet  I  think  thou  art,  in  sooth, 

But  woman  in  thy  form. — Thy  words  are  strange 

And  leave  me  mystified.    I  feel  the  truth 

Of  all  thou  hast  declared,  and  yet  so  vague 

And  shadow-like  thy  meaning  is  to  me, 

I  know  not  how  to  act  to  ward  the  blow 

Thou  sayest  is  hanging  o'er  me  even  now." 

And  then,  with  open  hands  held  pleadingly, 

He  asked,  "Who  is  my  foe?" — And  o'er  his  face 

A  sudden  pallor  flashed,  like  death  itself, 

As  though,  if  answer  had  been  given,  it 

Had  fallen  like  a  curse. 


CRESTILLOMEEM 

I'll  stake  my  soul 

Thrice  over  in  the  grinning  teeth  of  doom, 
'Tis  Dwainie  of  the  Wunks  who  peeks  and  peers 
With  those  fine  eyes  of  hers  in  our  affairs 
And  carries  Krung,  in  some  disguise,  these  hints 
Of  our  intent !    See  thou  that  silence  falls 
Forever  on  her  lips,  and  that  the  sight 
She  wastes  upon  our  secret  action  blurs 
With  gray  and  grisly  scum  that  shall  for  aye 
Conceal  us  from  her  gaze  while  she  writhes  blind 
And  fangless  as  the  fat  worms  of  the  grave ! 
Here !  take  this  tuft  of  downy  druze,  and  when 
Thou  comest  on  her,  fronting  full  and  fair, 
Say  "Sherzham!"  thrice,  and  fluff  it  in  her  face. 


290      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

JUCKLET 

Thou  knowest  scanty  magic,  O  my  Queen, 

But  all  thou  dost  is  fairly  excellent — 

An  this  charm  work,  thou  shalt  have  fuller  faith 

Than  still  I  must  withhold. 

[Takes  charm,  with  extravagant  salutation] 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

Thou  gibing  knave ! 

Thou  thing !    Dost  dare  to  name  my  sorcery 
As  any  trifling  gift?    Behold  what  might 
Be  thine  an  thy  deserving  wavered  not 
In  stable  and  abiding  service  to 
Thy  Queen! 

[She  presses  suddenly  her  palm  upon  his  eyes,  then 
lifts  her  softly  opening  hand  upward,  his  gaze 
following,  where,  slowly  shaping  in  the  air 
above  them,  appears  semblance — or  counter- 
self — of  CRESTILLOMEEM,  clothed  in  most  ra 
diant  youth,  her  maiden-face  bent  downward 
to  a  moonlit  sward,  where  kneels  a  lover-knight 
— flawless  in  manly  symmetry  and  princely 
beauty, — yet  none  other  than  the  counter-self 
of  JUCKLET,  eeriely  and  with  strange  siveetness 
singing,  to  some  curiously  tinkling  instrument, 
the  praises  of  its  queenly  mistress:  JUCKLET 
and  CRESTILLOMEEM  transfixed  below — tran 
cedly  gazing  on  their  mystic  selves  above.] 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE   NIGHT      291 
SEMBLANCE  OF  JUCKLET  [Sings] 

Crestillomeem ! 

Crestillomeem! 

Soul  of  my  slumber! — Dream  of  my  dream! 
Moonlight  may  fall  not  as  goldenly  fair 
As  falls  the  gold  of  thine  opulent  hair — 
Nay,  nor  the  starlight  as  dazzlingly  gleam 
As  gleam  thine  eyes,  'Meema — Crestillomeem! — 
Star  of  the  skies,  'Meema — 

Crestillomeem ! 

SEMBLANCE  OF  CRESTILLOMEEM  [Sings] 

O  Prince  divine! 

0  Prince  divine! 

Tempt  thou  me  not  with  that  sweet  voice  of  thine! 
Though  my  proud  brow  bear  the  blaze  of  a  crown, 
Lo,  at  thy  feet  must  its  glory  bow  down, 
That  from  the  dust  thou  mayest  lift  me  to  shine 
Heaven3 'd  in  thy  heart's  rapture,  O  Prince  divine! — 
Queen  of  thy  love  ever, 

O  Prince  divine! 

SEMBLANCE  OF  JUCKLET    [Sings] 

Crestillomeem  I 

Crestillomeem ! 

Our  life  shall  flow  as  a  musical  stream — 
Windingly — placidly  on  it  shall  wend, 


292      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE  NIGHT 

Marged  with  mazhoora-bloom  banks  without  end — 
Word-birds  shall  call  thee  and  dreamily  scream, 
"Where  dost  thou  cruise,  'Meema — Crestillomeemf 
Whither  away,  'Meema? — 

Crestillomeem!" 

Duo 

[Vision  and  voices  gradually  failing  away} 

Crestillomeem! 

Crestillomeem ! 

Soul  of  my  slumber! — Dream  of  my  dream! 
Star  of  Love's  light,  'Meema — Crestillomeem! 
Crescent  of  Night,  'Meema!— 

Crestillomeem ! 

[With  song,  vision  likewise  fails  utterly} 

CRESTILLOMEEM 
[To  JUCKLET,  still  trancedly  staring  upward} 

How  now,  thou  clabber-brained  spudge! — 
Thou  squelk ! — thou — 

JUCKLET 

Nay,  O  Queen!  contort  me  not 
To  more  condensed  littleness  than  now 
My  shamed  frame  incurreth  on  itself, 


I 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE  NIGHT     293 

Seeing  what  might  fare  with  it,  didst  thou  will 

Kindly  to  nip  it  with  thy  magic  here 

And  leave  it  living  in  that  form  i'  the  air, 

Forever  pranking  o'er  the  daisied  sward 

In  wake  of  sandal-prints  that  dint  the  dews 

As  lightly  as,  in  thy  late  maidenhood, 

Thine  own  must  needs  have  done  in  flighting  from 

The  dread  encroachments  of  the  King. 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

Nay — peace ! 
JUCKLET 

So  be  it,  O  sweet  Mystic. — But  I  crave 

One  service  of  thy  magic  yet. — Amphine! — 

Breed  me  some  special,  damned  philter  for 

Amphine — the  fair  Amphine ! — to  chuck  it  him, 

Some  serenade-tide,  in  a  sodden  slug 

O'  pastry,  'twixt  the  door-crack  and  a  screech 

O'  rusty  hinges. — Hey!  Amphine,  the  fair! — 

And  let  me,  too,  elect  his  doom,  O  Queen ! — 

Listed  against  thee,  he,  too,  doubtless  hath 

Been  favored  with  an  outline  of  our  scheme. — 

And  I  would  kick  my  soul  all  over  hell 

If  I  might  juggle  his  fine  figure  up 

In  such  a  shape  as  mine! 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

Then  this :— When  thou 
Canst  come  upon  him  bent  above  a  flower, 


294      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE  NIGHT 

Or  any  blooming  thing,  and  thou,  arear, 

Shalt  reach  it  first  and,  thwartwise,  touch  it  fair, 

And  with  thy  knuckle  flick  him  on  the  knee, — 

Then — his  fine  form  will  shrink  and  shrivel  up 

As  warty  as  a  toad's— so  hideous, 

Thine  own  shall  seem  a  marvel  of  rare  grace ! 

Though  idly  speak'st  thou  of  my  mystic  skill, 

Twas  that  which  won  the  King  for  me  ; — 'twas  that 

Bereft  him  of  his  daughter  ere  we  had 

Been  wedded  yet  a  haed : — She  strangely  went 

Astray  one  moonset  from  the  palace-steps — 

She  went — nor  yet  returned. — Was  it  not  strange  ? — 

She  would  be  wedded  to  an  alien  prince 

The  morrow  midnight — to  a  prince  whose  sire 

I  once  knew,  in  lost  hours  of  lute  and  song, 

When  he  was  but  a  prince — /  but  a  mouth 

For  him  to  lift  up  sippingly  and  drain 

To  lees  most  ultimate  of  stammering  sobs 

And  maudlin  wanderings  of  blinded  breath. 

JUCKLET  [Aside] 

Twigg-brebblets!  but  her  Majesty  hath  speech 
That  doth  be  juice  all  metaphor  to  drip 
And  spray  and  mist  of  sweetness! 

CRESTILLOMEEM  [Confusedly] 

Where  was  I? 

O,  ay ! — The  princess  went — she  strangely  went ! — 
E'en  as  I  deemed  her  lover-princeling  would 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF    THE   NIGHT      295 

As  strangely  go,  were  she  not  soon  restored. — 
As  so  he  did: — That  airy  penalty 
The  jocund  Fates  provide  our  love-lorn  wights 
In  this  glad  island :    So  for  thrice  three  nights 
They  spun  the  prince  his  line  and  marked  him  pay 
It  out  (despite  all  warnings  of  his  doom) 
In  fast  and  sleepless  search  for  her — and  then 
They  tripped  his  fumbling  feet  and  he  fell — UP  ! — 
Up! — as   'tis   writ — sheer  past   Heaven's  flinching 

walls 

And  topmost  cornices. — Up — up  and  on! — 
And,  it  is  grimly  guessed  of  those  who  thus 
For  such  a  term  bemoan  an  absent  love, 
And  so  fall  w/>wise,  they  must  needs  fall  on — 
And  on  and  on — and  on — and  on — and  on! 
Ha!  ha! 

JUCKLET 

Quahh!  but  the  prince's   holden  breath 
Must  ache  his  throat  by  this !    But,  O  my  Queen, 
What  of  the  princess? — and — 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

The  princess? — Ay — 

The  princess  !    Ay,  she  went — she  strangely  went ! 
And  when  the  dainty  vagrant  came  not  back — 
Both  sire  and  son  in  apprehensive  throes 
Of  royal  grief — the  very  Throne  befogged 
In  sighs  and  tears ! — when  all  hope  waned  at  last, 


296      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE  NIGHT 

And  all  the  spies  of  Spirkland,  in  her  quest, 

Came  straggling  empty-handed  home  again, — 

Why,  then  the  wise  King  sleeved  his  rainy  eyes 

And  sagely  thought  the  pretty  princess  had 

Strayed   to  the   island's   edge   and  tumbled   off. 

I  could  have  set  his  mind  at  ease  on  that — 

I  could  have  told  him, — yea,  she  tumbled  off — 

I  tumbled  her! — and  tumbled  her  so  plump, 

She  tumbled  in  an  under-island,  then 

Just  slow-unmooring  from  our  own  and  poised 

For  unknown  voyagings  of  flight  afar 

And  all  remote  of  latitudes  of  ours. — 

Ay,  into  that  land  I  tumbled  her  from  which 

But  one  charm  known  to  art  can  tumble  her 

Back  into  this, — and  that  charm  (guilt  be  praised!) 

Is  lodged  not  in  the  wit  nor  the  desire 

Of  my  rare  lore. 

JUCKLET 

Thereinasmuch  find  joy! 
But  dost  thou  know  that  rumors  flutter  now 
Among  thy  subjects  of  thy  sorceries? — 
The  art  being  banned,  thou  knowest ;  or,  unhoused, 
Is  unleashed  pitilessly  by  the  grim, 
Facetious  body  of  the  dridular 
Upon  the  one  who  fain  had  loosed  the  curse 
On  others. — An  my  counsel  be  worth  aught, 
Then  have  a  care  thy  spells  do  not  revert 
Upon  thyself,  nor  yet  mine  own  poor  hulk 
O'  f earsomeness ! 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE   NIGHT      297 
CRESTILLOMEEM 

Ha!  ha!    No  vaguest  need 
Of  apprehension  there! — While  Krung  remains — 

[She  abruptly  pauses — startled  first,  then  listening 
curiously  and  with  awed  interest.  Voice  of  ex 
quisite  melodiousness  and  fervor  heard  sing 
ing.] 

VOICE 

When  kings  are  kings,  and  kings  are  men — 

And  the  lonesome  rain  is  raining ! — 
O  who  shall  rule  from  the  red  throne  then, 
And  who  shall  covet  the  scepter  when — 

When  the  winds  are  all  complaining? 

When  men  are  men,  and  men  are  kings — 
And  the  lonesome  rain  is  raining! — 
O  who  shall  list  as  the  minstrel  sings 
Of  the  crown's  fiat,  or  the  signet-ring's, 

When  the  winds  are  all  complaining? 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

Whence  flows  such  sweetness,  and  what  voice  is 
that? 

JUCKLET 

The  voice  of  Spraivoll,  an  mine  ears  be  whet 
And  honed  o'  late  honeyed  memories 


298      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE   NIGHT 

Behaunting  the  deserted  purlieus  of 
The  court. 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

And  who  is  Spraivoll,  and  what  song 
Is  that  besung  so  blinding  exquisite 
Of  cadenced  mystery? 

JUCKLET 

Spraivoll — O  Queen, — 

Spraivoll  The  Tune-Fool  is  she  fitly  named 
By  those  who  meet  her  ere  the  day  long  wanes 
And  naught  but  janiteering  sparsely  frets 
The  cushioned  silences  and  stagnant  dusts 
Indifferently  resuscitated  by 
The  drowsy  varlets  in  mock  servitude 
Of  so  refurbishing  the  royal  halls : 
She  cometh,  alien,  from  Wunkland — so 
Hath  she  deposed  to  divers  questioners 
Who  have  been  smitten  of  her  voice — as  rich 
In  melody  as  she  is  poor  in  mind. 
She  hath  been  roosting,  pitied  of  the  hinds 
And  scullions,  round  about  the  palace  here 
For  half  a  node. 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

And  pray,  where  is  she  perched — 
This  wild-bird  woman  with  her  wondrous  throat? 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF    THE   NIGHT      299 
JUCKLET 

Under  some  dingy  cornice,  like  enough — 

Though  wild-bird  she  is  not,  being  plumed  in, 

Not  feathers,  but  one  fustianed  stole — the  like 

Of  which  so  shameth  her  fair  face  one  needs 

Must  swear  some  lusty  oaths,  but  that  they  shape 

Themselves  full  gentlewise  in  mildest  prayer : — 

Not  wild-bird; — nay,  nor  woman — though,  in  truth, 

She  ith  a  licensed  idiot,  and  drifts 

About,  as  restless  and  as  useless,  too, 

As  any  lazy  breeze  in  summer-time. 

I'll  call  her  forth  to  greet  your  Majesty. 

Ho !  Spraivoll !  Ho !  my  twittering  birdster,  flit 

Thou  hither. 

[Enter  SPRAIVOLL — from  behind  group  of  statuary 
— singing} 

SPRAIVOLL 

Ting-aling !    Ling-ting !    Tingle-tee ! 
The  moon  spins  round  and  round  for  me ! 
Wind  it  up  with  a  golden  key. 
Ting-aling!  Ling-ting!  Tingle-tee! 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

Who   art  thou,   and  what   the  strange 
Elusive  beauty  and  intent  of  thy 


300      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

Sweet  song?  What  singest  thou,  vague,  mystic- 
bird— 
What  doth  The  Tune-Fool  sing?  Ay,  sing  me  what. 

SPRAIVOLL  [Singing} 

What  sings  the  breene  on  the  wertling-vine, 
And  the  tweck  on  the  bamner-stem? 

Their  song,  to  me,  is  the  same  as  mine, 
As  mine  is  the  same  to  them — to  them — 
As  mine  is  the  same  to  them. 

In  star-starved  glooms  where  the  plustre  looms 

With  its  slender  boughs  above, 
Their    song    sprays    down    with    the    fragrant 

blooms, — 

And  the  song  they  sing  is  love — is  love — 
And  the  song  they  sing  is  love. 

JUCKLET 

Your  Majesty  may  be  surprised  somewhat, 
But  Spraivoll  can  not  talk, — her  only  mode 
Of  speech  is  melody ;  and  thou  might'st  put 
The  dowered  fool  a  thousand  queries,  and, 
In  like  return,  receive  a  thousand  songs, 
All  set  to  differing  tunes — as  full  of  naught 
As  space  is  full  of  emptiness. 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

A  fool?— 
And  with  a  gift  so  all-divine! — A  fool? 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE   NIGHT      301 
JUCKLET 

Ay,  warranted !— The  Flying  Islands  all 
Might  flock  in  mighty  counsel— molt,  and  shake 
Their  loosened  feathers,  and  sort  every  tuft, 
Nor  ever  most  minutely  quarry  there 
One  other  Spraivoll,  itching  with  her  voice 
Such  favored  spot  of  cuticle  as  she 
Alone  selects  here  in  our  blissful  realm. 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

Out,  jester,  on  thy  cumbrous  wordiness ! 

Come  hither,  Tune-Fool,  and  be  not  afraid, 

For  I  like  fools  so  well  I  married  one : 

And  since  thou  art  a  Queen  of  fools,  and  he 

A  King,  why,  I've  a  mind  to  bring  ye  two 

Together  in  some  wise.     Canst  use  thy  song 

All  times  in  such  entrancing  spirit  one 

Who  lists  must  so  needs  list,  e'en  though  the  song 

Go  on  unceasingly  indefinite? 

SPRAIVOLL  [Singing] 

If  one  should  ask  me  for  a  song, 
Then  I  should  answer,  and  my  tongue 

Would  twitter,  trill  and  troll  along 
Until  the  song  were  done. 

Or  should  one  ask  me  for  my  tongue, 
And  I  should  answer  with  a  song, 

I'd  trill  it  till  the  song  were  sung, 
And  troll  it  all  along. 


302      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF    THE  NIGHT 
CRESTILLOMEEM 

Thou  art  indeed  a  fool,  and  one,  I  think, 

To  serve  my  present  purposes.    Give  ear. — 

And  Jucklet,  thou,  go  to  the  King  and  bide 

His  waking:  then  repeat  these  words: — "The  Queen 

Impatiently  awaits  his  Majesty, 

And  craves  his  presence  in  the  Tower  of  Stars, 

That  she  may  there  express  full  tenderly 

Her  great  solicitude.''     And  then,  end  thus, — 

"So  much  she  bade,  and  drooped  her  glowing  face 

Deep  in  the  showerings  of  her  golden  hair, 

And  with  a  flashing  gesture  of  her  arm 

Turned  all  the  moonlight  pallid,  saying  'Haste!"' 

JUCKLET 

And  would  it  not  be  well  to  hang  a  pearl 
Or  twain  upon  thy  silken  lashes? 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

Go! 

JUCKLET  [Exit,  singing] 

This  lovely  husband's  loyal  breast 
Heaved  only  as  she  might  suggest, — 
To  every  whimsy  she  expressed 
He  proudly  bowed  and  acquiesced. 

He  plotted  with  her,  blithe  and  gay — 

In  no  flirtation  said  her  nay, — 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF    THE   NIGHT      303 

He  even  took  her  to  the  play, 
Excused  himself  and  came  away. 


CRESTILLOMEEM  [To  SpraivoU] 

Now,  Tune-Fool,  junior,  let  me  theme  thee  for 
A  song: — An  Empress  once,  with  angel  in 
Her  face  and  devil  in  her  heart,  had  wish 
To  breed  confusion  to  her  sovereign  lord, 
And  work  the  downfall  of  his  haughty  son — 
The  issue  of  a  former  marriage — who 
Bellowsed  her  hatred  to  the  whitest  heat, 
For  that  her  own  son,  by  a  former  lord, 
Was  born  a  hideous  dwarf,  and  reared  aside 
From  the  sire's  knowing  or  his  princely  own — 
That  none,  in  sooth,  might  ever  chance  to  guess 
The  hapless  mother  of  the  hapless  child. 
The  Fiends  that  scar  her  thus,  protect  her  still 
With  outward  beauty  of  both  face  and  form. — 
It  so  is  written,  and  so  must  remain 
Till  magic  greater  than  their  own  is  found 
To  hurl  against  her.     So  is  she  secure 
And  proof  above  all  fear.     Now,  listen  well! — 
Her  present  lord  is  haunted  with  a  dream, 
That  he  is  soon  to  pass,  and  so  prepares 
(All  havoc  hath  been  wrangled  with  the  drugs!) 
The  Throne  for  the  ascension  of  the  son, 
His  cursed  heir,  who  still  doth  baffle  all 
Her  arts  against  him,  e'en  as  though  he  were 
Protected  by  a  skill  beyond  her  own. 


304      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

Soh !  she,  the  Queen,  doth  rule  the  King  in  all 
Save  this  affectionate  perversity 
Of  favor  for  the  son  whom  he  would  raise 
To  his  own  place. — And  but  for  this  the  King 
Long  since  had  tasted  death  and  kissed  his  fate 
As  one  might  kiss  a  bride !    But  so  his  Queen 
Must  needs  withhold,  not  deal,  the  final  blow, 
She  yet  doth  bind  him,  spelled,  still  trusting  her ; 
And,  by  her  craft  and  wanton  flatteries, 
Doth  sway  his  love  to  every  purpose  but 
The  one  most  coveted. — And  for  this  end 
She  would  make  use  of  thee ; — and  if  thou  dost 
Her  will,  as  her  good  pleasure  shall  direct, 
Why,  thou  shalt  sing  at  court,  in  silken  tire, 
Thy  brow  bound  with  wild  diamonds,  and  thy  hair 
Sown  with  such  gems  as  laugh  hysteric  lights 
From  glittering  quespar,  guenk  and  plennocynth, — 
Ay,  even  panoplied  as  might  the  fair 
Form  of  a  very  princess  be,  thy  voice 
Shall  woo  the  echoes  of  the  listening  Throne. 

SPRAIVOLL    [Crooning  abstractedly] 

And  O  shall  one — high  brother  of  the  air, 

In  deeps  of  space — shall  he  have  dream  as  fair? — 

And  shall  that  dream  be  this? — In  some  strange 

place 

Of  long-lost  lands  he  finds  her  waiting  face — 
Comes  marveling  upon  it,  unaware, 
Set  moonwise  in  the  midnight  of  her  hair, 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS  OF   THE  NIGHT      305 

And  is  behaunted  with  old  nights  of  May, 

So  his  glad  lips  do  purl  a  roundelay 

Purloined  from  the  echo-triller's  beak, 

Seen  keenly  notching  at  some  star's  blanch  cheek 

With  its  ecstatic  twitterings,  through  dusk 

And  sheen  of  dewy  boughs  of  bloom  and  musk. 

For  him,  Love,  light  again  the  eyes  of  her 

That  show  nor  tears  nor  laughter  nor  surprise — 

For  him  undim  their  glamour  and  the  blur 

Of  dreams  drawn  from  the  depths  of  deepest  skies. 

He  doth  not  know  if  any  lily  blows 

As  fair  of  feature,  nor  of  any  rose. 

CRESTILLOMEEM    [Aside] 

O  this  weird  woman!  she  doth  drug  mine  ears 
With  her  uncanny  sumptuousness  of  song! 
[To  Spraivoll]   Nay,  nay !   Give  o'er  thy  tuneful 

maunderings 

And  mark  me  further,  Tune-Fool — ay,  and  well : — 
At  present  doth  the  King  lie  in  a  sleep 
Drug-wrought  and  deep  as  death — the  after-phase 
Of  an  unconscious  state,  in  which  each  act 
Of  his  throughout  his  waking  hours  is  so 
Rehearsed,  in  manner,  motion,  deed  and  word, 
Her  spies  (the  Queen's)  that  watch  him,  serving 

there 

As  guardians  o'er  his  royal  slumbers,  may 
Inform  her  of  her  lord's  most  secret  thought. 
And  lo,  her  plans  have  ripened  even  now 
Till,  should  he  come  upon  this  Throne  to-night, 


306      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

Where  eagerly  his  counselors  will  bide 
His  coming, — she,  the  Queen,  hath  reason  to 
Suspect  her  long-designed  purposes 
May  fall  in  jeopardy; — but  if  he  fail, 
Through  any  means,  to  lend  his  presence  there, — 
Then,  by  a  wheedled  mandate,  is  his  Queen 
Empowered  with  all  Sovereignty  to  reign 
And  work  the  royal  purposes  instead. 
Therefore,  the  Queen  hath  set  an  interview — 
A  conference  to  be  holden  with  the  King, 
Which  is  ordained  to  fall  on  noon  to-night, 
Twelve  star-twirls  ere  the  nick  the  Throne  con 
venes. — 

And  with  her  thou  shalt  go,  and  bide  in  wait 
Until  she  signal  thee  to  sing ;  and  then 
Shalt  thou  so  work  upon  his  mellow  mood 
With  that  un-Spirkly  magic  of  thy  voice — 
So  all  bedaze  his  waking  thought  with  dreams, — 
The  Queen  may,  all  unnoticed,  slip  away, 
And  leave  thee  singing  to  a  throneless  King. 

SPRAIVOLL  [Singing] 

And  who  shall  sing  for  the  haughty  son 
While  the  good  King  droops  his  head  ? — 

And  will  he  dream,  when  the  song  is  done, 
That  a  princess  fair  lies  dead? 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

The  haughty  son  hath  found  his  "Song" — sweet 
curse  ! — 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE   NIGHT      307 

And  may  she  sing  his  everlasting  dirge ! 

She  comes  from  that  near-floating  land  of  thine, 

Naming  herself  a  princess  of  that  realm 

So  strangely  peopled  we  would  fain  evade 

All  mergence,  and  remain  as  strange  to  them 

As  they  to  us.    No  less  this  Dwainie  hath 

Most  sinuously  writhed  and  lithed  her  way 

Into  court  favor  here — hath  glidden  past 

The  King's  encharmed  sight  and  sleeked  herself 

Within  the  very  altars  of  his  house — 

His  line— his  blood— his  very  \\le\—AMPHINE! 

Not  any  Spirkland  gentlemaiden  might 

Aspire  so  high  as  she  hath  dared  to  dare ! — 

For  she,  with  her  fair  skin  and  finer  ways, 

And  beauty  second  only  to  the  Queen's, 

Hath  caught  the  Prince  betwixt  her  mellow  palms 

And  stroked  him  flutterless.    Didst  ever  thou 

In  thy  land  hear  of  Dwainie  of  the  Wunksf 

SPRAIVOLL   [Singing} 

Ay,  Dwainie! — My  Dwainie! 

The  lurloo  ever  sings, 
A  tremor  in  his  flossy  crest 

And  in  his  glossy  wings. 
And  Dwainie! — My  Dwainie! 

The  winno-welvers  call ; — 
But  Dwainie  hides  in  Spirkland 

And  answers  not  at  all. 

The  teeper  twitters  Dwainie ! — 

The  tcheucker  on  his  spray 


308      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

Teeters  up  and  down  the  wind 

And  will  not  fly  away : 
And  Dwainie! — My  Dwainie! 

The  drowsy  oovers  drawl; — 
But  Dwainie  hides  in  Spirkland 

And  answers  not  at  all. 

O  Dwainie! — My  Dwainie! 

The  breezes  hold  their  breath — 
The  stars  are  pale  as  blossoms, 

And  the  night  as  still  as  death : 
And  Dwainie! — My  Dwainie! 

The  fainting  echoes  fall ; — 
But  Dwainie  hides  in  Spirkland 

And  answers  not  at  all. 

CRESTILLOMEEM 

A  melody  ecstatic!  and — thy  words, 
Although  so  meaningless,  seem  something  more — 
A  vague  and  shadowy  something,  eerie-like, 
That  maketh  one  to  shiver  over-chilled 
With  curious,  creeping  sweetnesses  of  pain 
And  catching  breaths  that  flutter  tremulous 
With  sighs  that  dry  the  throat  out  icily. — 
But  save  thy  music !    Come !  that  I  may  make 
Thee  ready  for  thy  royal  auditor.  [Exeunt] 

END  ACT  I 


ACT  II 

SCENE  I.  A  garden  of  KRUNG'S  Palace,  screened 
from  the  moon  with  netted  glenk-vines  and 
blooming  zhoomer-boughs,  all  glimmeringly 
lighted  with  star-Hakes.  An  arbor,  near  which 
is  a  table  spread  with  a  repast — two  seats, 
drawn  either  side.  A  playing  fountain,  at 
marge  of  which  AMPIIINE  sits  thrumming  a 
trentoraine. 

AMPHINE   [Improvising] 

Ah,  help  me !  but  her  face  and  brow 
Are  lovelier  than  lilies  are 
Beneath  the  light  of  moon  and  star 
That  smile  as  they  are  smiling  now — 
White  lilies  in  a  pallid  swoon 
Of  sweetest  white  beneath  the  moon — 
White  lilies  in  a  flood  of  bright 
Pure  lucidness  of  liquid  light 
Cascading  down  some  plenilune 
When  all  the  azure  overhead 
309 


310      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

Blooms  like  a  dazzling  daisy-bed. — 
So  luminous  her  face  and  brow, 
The  luster  of  their  glory,  shed 
In  memory,  even,  blinds  me  now. 

[Plaintively  addressing  instrument} 

O  warbling  strand  of  silver,  where,  O  where 
Hast  thou  unraveled  that  sweet  voice  of  thine 
And  left  its  silken  murmurs  quavering 
In  limp  thrills  of  delight  ?    O  golden  wire, 
Where  hast  thou  spilled  thy  precious  twinker- 

ings?— 

What  thirsty  ear  hath  drained  thy  melody, 
And  left  me  but  a  wild,  delirious  drop 
To  tincture  all  my  soul  with  vain  desire  ? 

[Improvising] 

Her  face — her  brow — her  hair  unfurled ! — 

And  O  the  oval  chin  below, 

Carved,  like  a  cunning  cameo, 

With  one  exquisite  dimple,  swirled 

With  swimming  shine  and  shade,  and  whirled 

The  daintiest  vortex  poets  know — 

The  sweetest  whirlpool  ever  twirled 

By  Cupid's  finger-tip, — and  so, 

The  deadliest  maelstrom  in  the  world. 

[Pauses — Enter  unperceived,  DWAINIE,  behind,  in 
upper  bower] 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS  OF   THE  NIGHT      311 
AMPHINE     [Again  addressing  instrument} 

O  Trentoraine !  how  like  an  emptied  vase 

Thou  art — whose  clustering  blooms  of  song  have 

drooped 

And  faded,  one  by  one,  and  fallen  away 
And  left  to  me  but  dry  and  tuneless  stems 
And  crisp  and  withered  tendrils  of  a  voice 
Whose  thrilling  tone,  now  like  a  throttled  sound, 
Lies  stifled,  faint,  and  gasping  all  in  vain 
For  utterance. 

[Again  improvising} 

And  O  mad  wars  of  blinding  blurs 
And  flashings  of  lance-blades  of  light, 
Whet  glitteringly  athwart  the  sight 
That  dares  confront  those  eyes  of  hers ! 
Let  any  dewdrop  soak  the  hue 
Of  any  violet  through  and  through, 
And  then  be  colorless  and  dull, 
Compared  with  eyes  so  beautiful! 
I  swear  ye  that  her  eyes  be  bright 
As  noonday,  yet  as  dark  as  night — 
As  bright  as  be  the  burnished  bars 
Of  rainbows  set  in  sunny  skies, 
And  yet  as  deep  and  dark,  her  eyes, 
And  lustrous  black  as  blown-out  stars. 

[Pauses  —  DWAINIE  still  unperceived,  radiantly 
smiling  and  wafting  kisses  down  from  trellis- 
window  above} 


312      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 
AMPHINE    [Again  to  instrument'} 

O  empty  husk  of  song! 
If  deep  within  my  heart  the  music  thou 
Hast  stored  away  might  find  an  issuance, 
A  fount  of  limpid  laughter  would  leap  up 
And  gurgle  from  my  lips,  and  all  the  winds 
Would  revel  with  it,  riotous  with  joy; 
And  Dwainie,  in  her  beauty,  would  lean  o'er 
The  battlements  of  night,  and,  like  the  moon, 
The  glory  of  her  face  would  light  the  world — 
For  I  would  sing  of  loveo 

DWAINIE 

And  she  would  hear, — 
And,  reaching  overhead  among  the  stars, 
Would  scatter  them  like  daisies  at  thy  feet. 

AMPHINE 

O  voice,  where  art  thou  floating  on  the  air?- 

0  Seraph-soul,  where  art  thou  hovering? 

DWAINIE 

1  hover  in  the  zephyr  of  thy  sighs, 

And  tremble  lest  thy  love  for  me  shall  fail 
To  buoy  me  thus  forever  on  the  breath 
Of  such  a  dream  as  Heaven  envies. 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE   NIGHT      313 

AMPHINE 

Ah! 

[Turning,  discovers  DWAINIE — she  still  -feigning 
invisibility,  while  he,  with  lifted  eyes  and  wist 
ful  gaze,  preludes  with  instrument  —  then 
sings.] 

Linger,  my  Dwainie !  Dwainie,  lily-fair, 
Stay  yet  thy  step  upon  the  casement-stair — 
Poised  be  thy  slipper-tip  as  is  the  tine 
Of  some  still  star. — Ah,  Dwainie — Dwainie  mine, 
Yet  linger — linger  there! 

Thy  face,  O  Dwainie,  lily-pure  and  fair, 
Gleams  i'  the  dusk,  as  in  thy  dusky  hair 
The  moony  zhoomer  glimmers,  or  the  shine 
Of  thy  swift  smile. — Ah,  Dwainie — Dwainie  mine, 
Yet  linger — linger  there ! 

With  lifted  wrist,  whereround  the  laughing  air 
Hath  blown  a  mist  of  lawn  and  clasped  it  there, 
Waft  finger-thipt  adieus  that  spray  the  wine 
Of  thy  waste  kisses  toward  me,  Dwainie  mine — 
Yet  linger — linger  there ! 

What  unloosed  splendor  is  there  may  compare 
With  thy  hand's  unfurled  glory,  anywhere? 
What  glint  of  dazzling  dew  or  jewel  fine 


314      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

May  mate  thine  eyes?  —  Ah,  Dwainie  —  Dwainie 
mine! 

Yet  linger  —  linger  there  ! 

My  soul  confronts  thee  :  On  thy  brow  and  hair 
It  lays  its  tenderness  like  palms  of  prayer  — 
It  touches  sacredly  those  lips  of  thine 
And  swoons  across  thy  spirit,  Dwainie  mine, 
The  while  thou  lingerest  there. 

[Drops   trentoraine,   and,  with   open  arms,   gazes 
yearningly  on  DWAINIE] 

DWAINIE    [Raptly] 
Thy  words  do  wing  my  being  dovewise  ! 

AMPHINE 

Then, 

Thou  lovest!  —  O  my  homing  dove,  veer  down 
And  nestle  in  the  warm  home  of  my  breast  ! 
So  empty  are  mine  arms,  so  full  my  heart, 
The  one  must  hold  thee,  or  the  other  burst. 

DWAINIE   [Throwing  herself  in  his  embrace} 


's  own  hand  methinks  hath  flung  me  here  : 
O  hold  me  that  He  may  not  pluck  me  back  ! 

AMPHINE 

So  closely  will  I  hold  thee  that  not  e'en 
The  hand  of  death  shall  separate  us. 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS   OF   THE   NIGHT      315 
DWAINIE 

So 

May  sweet  death  find  us,  then,  that,  woven  thus 
In  the  corolla  of  a  ripe  caress, 
We  may  drop  lightly,  like  twin  plustre-buds, 
On  Heaven's  star-strewn  lawn. 

AMPHINE 

So  do  I  pray. 
But  tell  me,  tender  heart,  an  thou  dost  love, 
Where  hast  thou  loitered  for  so  long? — for  thou 
Didst  promise  tryst  here  with  me  earlier  by 
Some  several  layodemes  which  I  have  told 
Full  chafingly  against  my  finger-tips 
Till  the  full  complement,  save  three,  are  ranged 
Thy  pitiless  accusers,  claiming,  each, 
So  many  as  their  joined  number  be 
Shalt  thou  so  many  times  lift  up  thy  lips 
For  mine's  most  lingering  forgiveness. 
So,  save  thee,  O  my  Sweet !  and  rest  thee,  I 
Have  ordered  merl  and  viands  to  be  brought 
For  our  refreshment  here,  where,  thus  alone, 
I  may  sip  words  with  thee  as  well  as  wine. 
Why  hast  thou  kept  me  so  athirst? — Why,  I 
Am  jealous  of  the  flattered  solitudes 
In  which  thou  walkest.  [They  sit  at  table} 

DWAINIE 

Nay,  I  will  not  tell, 
Since,  an  I  yielded,  countless  questions,  like 


316      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE  NIGHT 

In  idlest  worth,  would  waste  our  interview 
In  speculations  vain. — Let  this  suffice : — 
I  stayed  to  talk  with  one  whom,  long  ago, 
I  met  and  knew,  and  grew  to  love,  forsooth, 
In  dreamy  Wunkland. — Talked  of  mellow  nights, 
And  long,  long  hours  of  golden  olden  times 
When  girlish  happiness  locked  hands  with  me 
And  we  went  spinning  round,  with  naked  feet 
In  swaths  of  bruised  roses  ankle-deep ; 
When  laughter  rang  unsilenced,  unrebuked, 
And  prayers  went  unremembered,  oozing  clean 
From  the  drowsed  memory,  as  from  the  eyes 
The  pure,  sweet  mother-face  that  bent  above 
Glimmered  and  wavered,  blurred,  bent  closer  still 
A  timeless  instant,  like  a  shadowy  flame, 
Then  flickered  tremulously  o'er  the  brow 
And  went  out  in  a  kiss. 

AMPHINE    [Kissing  her} 

Not  like  to  this! 

O  blessed  lips  whose  kiss  alone  may  be 
Sweeter  than  their  sweet  speech !  Speak  on,  and  say 
Of  what  else  talked  thou  and  thy  friend  ? 

DWAINIE 

We  talked 

Of  all  the  past,  ah  me !  and  all  the  friends 
That  now  await  my  coming.    And  we  talked 
Of  O  so  many  things — so  many  things — 
That  I  but  blend  them  all  with  dreams  of  when, 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT      317 

With  thy  warm  hand  clasped  close  in  this  of  mine, 

We  cross  the  floating  bridge  that  soon  again 

Will  span  the  all-unfathomable  gulfs 

Of  nether  air  betwixt  this  isle  of  strife 

And  my  most  glorious  realm  of  changeless  peace, 

Where  summer  night  reigns  ever  and  the  moon 

Hangs  ever  ripe  and  lush  with  radiance 

Above  a  land  where  roses  float  on  wings 

And  fan  their  fragrance  out  so  lavishly 

That  Heaven  hath  hint  of  it,  and  oft  therefrom 

Sends  down  to  us  across  the  odorous  seas 

Strange  argosies  of  interchanging  bud 

And  blossom,  spice  and  balm. — Sweet — sweet 

Beyond  all  art  and  wit  of  uttering. 

AMPHINE 

O  Empress  of  my  listening  Soul,  speak  on, 
And  tell  me  all  of  that  rare  land  of  thine ! — 
For  even  though  I  reigned  a  peerless  king 
Within  mine  own,  methinks  I  could  fling  down 
My  scepter,  signet,  crown  and  royal  might, 
And  so  fare  down  the  thorned  path  of  life 
If  at  its  dwindling  end  my  feet  might  touch 
Upon  the  shores  of  such  a  land  as  thou 
Dost  paint  for  me — thy  realm !    Tell  on  of  it — 
And  tell  me  if  thy  sister-woman  there 
Is  like  to  thee — Yet  nay!  for  an  thou  didst, 
These  eyes  would  lose  all  speech  of  sight 
And  call  not  back  to  thine  their  utter  love. 
But  tell  me  of  thy  brothers. — Are  they  great, 


318      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

And  can  they  grapple  ^Eo's  arguments 
Beyond  our  skill?  or  wrest  a  purpose  from 
The  pink  side  of  the  moon  at  Darsten-tide  ? 
Or  cipher  out  the  problem  of  blind  stars, 
That  ever  still  do  safely  grope  their  way 
Among  the  thronging  constellations? 

DWAINIE 

Ay! 

Ay,  they  have  leaped  all  earthland  barriers 

In  mine  own  isle  of  wisdom-working  Wunks : — 

'Twas  Wunkland's  son  that  voyaged  round  the 

moon 

And  moored  his  bark  within  the  molten  bays 
Of  bubbling  silver :  And  'twas  Wunkland's  son 
That  talked  with  Mars — unbuckled  Saturn's  belt 
And  tightened  it  in  squeezure  of  such  facts 
Therefrom  as  even  he  dare  not  disclose 
In  full  till  all  his  followers,  as  himself, 
Have  grown  them  wings,  and  gat  them  beaks  and 

claws, 

With  plumage  all  bescienced  to  withstand 
All  tensest  flames — glaze-throated,  too,  and  lung'd 
To  swallow  fiercest-spurted  jets  and  cores 
Of  embered  and  unquenchable  white  heat : 
'Twas  Wunkland's  son  that  alchemized  the  dews 
And  bred  all  colored  grasses  that  he  wist — 
Divorced  the  airs  and  mists  and  caught  the  trick 
Of  azure-tinting  earth  as  well  as  sky: 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE  NIGHT      319 

'Twas  Wunkland's  son  that  bent  the  rainbow 

straight 

And  walked  it  like  a  street,  and  so  returned 
To  tell  us  it  was  made  of  hammered  shine, 
Inlaid  with  strips  of  selvage  from  the  sun 
And  burnished  with  the  rust  of  rotten  stars: 
'Twas  Wunkland's  son  that  comprehended  first 
All  grosser  things,  and  took  our  worlds  apart 
And  oiled  their  works  with  theories  that  clicked 
In  glib  articulation  with  the  pulse 
And  palpitation  of  the  systemed  facts. — 
And,  circling  ever  round  the  farthest  reach 
Of  the  remotest  welkin  of  all  truths, 
We  stint  not  our  investigations  to 
Our  worlds  only,  but  query  still  beyond. — 
For  now  our  goolores  say,  below  these  isles 
A  million  million  miles,  are  other  worlds — 
Not  like  to  ours,  but  round,  as  bubbles  are, 
And,  like  them,  ever  reeling  on  through  space, 
And  anchorless  through  all  eternity; — 
Not  like  to  ours,  for  our  isles,  as  they  note, 
Are  living  things  that  fly  about  at  night, 
And  soar  above  and  cling,  throughout  the  day, 
Like  bats,  beneath  the  bent  sills  of  the  skies : 
And  I  myself  have  heard,  at  dawn  of  moon, 
A  liquid  music  filtered  through  my  dreams, 
As  though  'twere  myriads  of  sweet  voices,  pent 
In  some  o'erhanging  realm,  had  spilled  themselves 
In  streams  of  melody  that  trickled  through 
The  chinks  and  crannies  of  a  crystal  pave. 


320      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

Until  the  wasted  juice  of  harmony, 

Slow-leaking  o'er  my  senses,  laved  my  soul 

In  ecstacy  divine :  And  afferhaiks, 

Who  scour  our  coasts  on  missions  for  the  King, 

Declare  our  island's  shape  is  like  the  zhibb's 

When  lolling  in  a  trance  upon  the  air 

With  open  wings  upslant  and  motionless. 

O  such  a  land  it  is — so  all  complete 

In  all  wise  inhabitants,  and  knowledge,  lore, 

Arts,  sciences,  perfected  government 

And  kingly  wisdom,  worth  and  majesty — 

And  Art — ineffably  above  all  else: — 

The  art  of  the  Romancer, — fabulous 

Beyond  the  miracles  of  strangest  fact; 

The  art  of  Poesy, — the  sanest  soul 

Is  made  mad  with  its  uttering ;  the  art 

Of  Music, — words  may  not  e'en  whimper  what 

The  jewel-sounds  of  song  yield  to  the  sense ; 

And,  last, — the  art  of  Knowing  what  to  Know, 

And  how  to  zoon  straight  toward  it  like  a  bee, 

Draining  or  song  or  poem  as  it  brims 

And  overruns  with  raciest  spirit-dew. — 

And,  after, — chaos  all  to  sense  like  thine, 

Till  there,  translated,  thou  shalt  know  as  I.    .    .    . 

So  furnished  forth  in  all  things  lovable 

Is  my  Land- Wondrous — ay,  and  thine  to  be, — 

O  Amphine,  love  of  mine,  it  lacks  but  thy 

Sweet  presence  to  make  it  a  paradise ! 

[Takes  up  trentoraine'] 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE  NIGHT      321 

And  shall  I  tell  thee  of  the  home  that  waits 
For  thy  glad  coming,  Amphine  ? — Listen,  then ! 

CHANT-RECITATIVE 

A  palace  veiled  in  a  glimmering  dusk; 

Warm  breaths  of  a  tropic  air, 
Drugged  with  the  odorous  marzhoo's  musk 

And  the  sumptuous  cyncotwaire — 
Where  the  trembling  hands  of  the  lilwing's  leaves 

The  winds  caress  and  fawn, 
While  the  dreamy  starlight  idly  weaves 

Designs  for  the  damask  lawn. 

Densed  in  the  depths  of  a  dim  eclipse 

Of  palms,  in  a  flowery  space, 
A  fountain  leaps  from  the  marble  lips 

Of  a  girl,  with  a  golden  vase 
Held  atip  on  a  curving  wrist, 

Drinking  the  drops  that  glance 
Laughingly  in  the  glittering  mist 

Of  her  crystal  utterance. 

Archways  looped  o'er  blooming  walks 

That  lead  through  gleaming  halls  ; 
And  balconies  where  the  word-bird  talks 

To  the  tittering  waterfalls : 
And  casements,  gauzed  with  the  filmy  sheen 

Of  a  lace  that  sifts  the  sight 
Through  a  ghost  of  bloom  on  the  haunted  screen 

That  drips  with  the  dews  of  light. 


322      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF    THE  NIGHT 

Weird,  pale  shapes  of  sculptured  stone, — 

With  marble  nymphs  agaze 
Ever  in  fonts  of  amber,  sown 

With  seeds  of  gold  and  sprays 
Of  emerald  mosses,  ever  drowned, 

Where  glimpses  of  shell  and  gem 
Peer  from  the  depths,  as  round  and  round 

The  nautilus  nods  at  them. 


Faces  blurred  in  a  mazy  dance, 

With  a  music,  wild  and  sweet, 
Spinning  the  threads  of  the  mad  romance 

That  tangles  the  waltzers'  feet: 
Twining  arms,  and  warm,  swift  thrills 

That  pulse  to  the  melody, 
Till  the  soul  of  the  dancer  dips  and  fills 

In  the  wells  of  ecstacy. 

Eyes  that  melt  in  a  quivering  ore 

Of  love,  and  the  molten  kiss 
Jetted  forth  of  the  hearts  that  pour 

Their  blood  in  the  molds  of  bliss. — 
Till,  worn  to  a  languor  slumber-deep, 

The  soul  of  the  dreamer  lifts 
A  silken  sail  on  the  gulfs  of  sleep, 

And  into  the  darkness  drifts. 

[The  instrument  falls  from  her  hand — AM£*HINE,  in 
stress  of  passionate  delight,  embraces  her.] 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS   OF    THE   NIGHT      323 
AMPHINE 

Thou  art  not  all  of  earth,  O  angel  one ! 
Nor  do  I  far  miswonder  me  an  thou 
Hast  peered  above  the  very  walls  of  Heaven ! 
What  hast  thou  seen  there  ? — Didst  on  yEo  bask 
Thine  eyes  and  clothe  Him  with  new  splendorings  ? 
And  strove  He  to  fling  back  as  bright  a  smile 
As  thine,  the  while  He  beckoned  thee  within  ? 
And,  tell  me,  didst  thou  meet  an  angel  there 
A-linger  at  the  gates,  nor  entering 
Till  I,  her  brother,  joined  her? 

DWAINIE 

Why,  hast  thou 

A  sister  dead  ? — Truth,  I  have  heard  of  one 
Long  lost  to  thee — not  dead? 

AMPHINE 

Of  her  I  speak,— 

And  dead,  although  we  know  not  certainly, 
We  moan  us  ever  it  must  needs  be  death 
Only  could  hold  her  from  us  such  long  term 
Of  changeless  yearning  for  her  glad  return. 
She  strayed  away  from  us  long,  long  ago. — 
O  and  our  memories ! — Her  wondering  eyes 
That  seemed  as  though  they  ever  looked  on  things 
We  might  not  see — as  haply  so  they  did, — 


324      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF    THE  NIGHT 

For  she  went  from  us,  all  so  suddenly— 
So  strangely  vanished,  leaving  never  trace 
Of  her  outgoing,  that  I  ofttimes  think 
Her  rapt  eyes  fell  along  some  certain  patH 
Of  special  glory  paven  for  her  feet, 
And  fashioned  of  y£o's  supreme  desire 
That  she  might  bend  her  steps  therein  and  so 
Reach  Him  again,  unseen  of  our  mere  eyes. 
My  sweet,  sweet  sister ! — lost  to  brother — sire — 
And,  to  her  heart,  one  dearer  than  all  else, — 
Her  lover — lost  indeed ! 


DWAINIE 

Nay,  do  not  grieve 

Thee  thus,  O  loving  heart !    Thy  sister  yet 
May  come  to  thee  in  some  glad  way  the  Fates 
Are  fashioning  the  while  thy  tear-drops  fall ! 
So  calm  thee,  while  I  speak  of  thine  own  self. — 
For  I  have  listened  to  a  whistling  bird 
That  pipes  of  waiting  danger.    Didst  thou  note 
No  strange  behavior  of  thy  sire  of  late  ? 

AMPHINE 

Ay,  he  is  silent,  and  he  walks  as  one 

In  some  fixed  melancholy,  or  as  one 

Half  waking. — Even  his  worshiped  books  seem 

now 
But  things  on  shelves. 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT      325 

DWAINIE 

And  doth  he  counsel  not 
With  thee  in  any  wise  pertaining  to 
His  ailings,  or  of  matters  looking  toward 
His  future  purposes  or  his  intents 
Regarding  thine  own  future  fortunings 
And  his  desires  and  interests  therein? 
What  bearing  hath  he  shown  of  late  toward  thee 
By  which  thou  might'st  beframe  some  estimate 
Of  his  mind's  placid  flow  or  turbulent? 
And  hath  he  not  so  spoken  thee  at  times 
Thou  hast  been  'wildered  of  his  words,  or  grieved 
Of  his  strange  manner? 

AMPHINE 

Once  he  stayed  me  on 

The  palace-stair  and  whispered,  "Lo,  my  son, 
Thy  young  reign  draweth  nigh — prepare!" — So 

passed 
And  vanished  as  a  wraith,  so  wan  he  was ! 

DWAINIE 

And  didst  thou  ever  reason  on  this  thing, 
Nor  ask  thyself  what  dims  thy  father's  eye 
And  makes  a  brooding  shadow  of  his  form? 

AMPHINE 

Why,  there's  ?  household  rumor  that  he  dreams 
Death  fareth  ever  at  his  side,  and  soon 


326      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

Shall  signal  him  away. — But  Jucklet  saith 
Crestillomeem  hath  said  the  leeches  say 
There  is  no  cause  for  serious  concern ; 
And  thus  am  I  assured  'tis  nothing  more 
Than  childish  fancy  of  mine  aging  sire,— 
And  so,  as  now,  I  laugh,  full  reverently, 
And  marvel,  as  I  mark  his  shuffling  gait, 
And  his  bestrangered  air  and  murmurous  lips, 
As  by  he  glideth  to  and  fro,  ha !  ha ! 
Ho  !  ho ! — I  laugh  me  many,  many  times — 
Mind,  thou,  'tis  reverently  I  laugh — ha!  ha! — 
And  wonder,  as  he  glideth  ghostly-wise, 
If  ever  7  shall  waver  as  I  walk, 
And  stumble  o'er  my  beard,  and  knit  my  brows, 
And  o'er  the  dull  mosaics  of  the  pave 
Play  chequers  with  mine  eyes  !    Ha !  ha ! 

DWAINIE     [Aside] 

How  dare- 
How  dare  I  tell  him  ?    Yet  I  must — I  must ! 

AMPHINE 

Why,  art  thou,  too,  grown  childish,  that  thou  canst 
Find  thee  waste  pleasure  talking  to  thyself 
And  staring  f rowningly  with  eyes  whose  smiles 
I  need  so  much  ? 

DWAINIE 

Nay,  rather  say,  their  tears, 
Poor  thoughtless  Prince !     [Aside]     (My  magic 
even  now 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE  NIGHT      327 

Forecasts  his  kingly  sire's  near  happening 
Of  nameless  hurt  and  ache  and  awful  stress 
Of  agony  supreme,  when  he  shall  stare 
The  stark  truth  in  the  face!) 

AMPHINE 

What  meanest  thou? 
DWAINIE 

What  mean  I  but  thy  welfare  ?    Why,  I  mean, 
One  hour  agone,  the  Queen,  thy  mother — 

AMPHINE 

Nay, 
Say  only  "Queen" ! 

DWAINIE 

— The  Queen,  one  hour  agone — 
As  so  I  learned  from  source  I  need  not  say — 
Sent  message  craving  audience  with  the  King 
At  noon  to-night,  within  the  Tower  of  Stars. — 
Thou  knowest,  only  brief  space  following 
The  time  of  her  pent  session  thereso  set 
In  secret  with  the  King  alone,  the  Throne 
Is  set,  too,  to  convene ;  and  that  the  King 
Hath  lent  his  seal  unto  a  mandate  that, 
Should  he  withhold  his  presence  there,  the  Queen 
Shall  be  empowered  to  preside — to  reign — 


328      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

Solely  endowed  to  work  the  royal  will 

In  lieu  of  the  good  King.    Now,  therefore,  I 

Have  been  advised  that  she,  the  Queen,  by  craft 

Connives  to  hold  him  absent  purposely, 

That  she  may  claim  the  vacancy — for  what 

Covert  design  I  know  not,  but  I  know 

It  augurs  peril  to  you  both,  as  to 

The  Throne's  own  perpetuity.      [Aside]      (Again 

My  magic  gives  me  vision  terrible : — 

The  Sorceress'  legions  balk  mine  own. — The  King 

Still  hers,  yet  wavering.     O  save  the  King, 

Thou  ^Eo!— Render  him  to  us!)' 

AMPHINE 

I  feel 

Thou  speakest  truth :  and  yet  how  know'st  thou 
this? 

DWAINIE 

Ask  me  not  that;  my  lips  are  welded  close. — 

And,  more, — since  I  have  dared  to  speak,  and  thou 

To  listen, — Jucklet  is  accessory, 

And  even  now  is  plotting  for  thy  fall. 

But,  Passion  of  my  Soul!  think  not  of  me, — 

For  nothing  but  sheer  rnagic  may  avail 

To  work  me  harm ; — but  look  thou  to  thyself ! 

For  thou  art  blameless  cause  of  all  the  hate 

That  rankleth  in  the  bosom  of  the  Queen. 

So  have  thine  eyes  tins!  umbered  ever,  that 

No  step  may  steal  behind  thee — for  in  this 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS  OF   THE   NIGHT      329 

Unlooked-of  way  thine  enemy  will  come: 
This  much  I  know,  but  for  what  fell  intent 
Dare  not  surmise. — So  look  thou,  night  and  day, 
That  none  may  skulk  upon  thee  in  this  wise 
Of  dastardly  attack.     [Aside}     (Ha!  Sorceress ! 
Thou  palest,  tossing  wild  and  wantonly 
The  smothering  golden  tempest  of  thy  hair. — 
What!  lying  eyes!  ye  dare  to  utter  tears? 
Help!  help!    Yield  us  the  King!) 

AMPHINE 

And  thou,  O  sweet ! 

How  art  thou  guarded  and  what  shield  is  thine 
Of  safety? 

DWAINIE 

Fear  not  thou  for  me  at  all. — 
Possessed  am  I  of  wondrous  sorcery — 
The  gift  of  Holy  Magi  at  my  birth : — 
Mine  enemy  must  front  me  in  assault 
And  must  with  mummery  of  speech  assail, 
And  I  will  know  him  in  first  utterance — 
And  so  may  thus  disarm  him,  though  he  be 
A  giant  thrice  in  vasty  form  and  force. 

[Singing  heard] 

But,  list!  what  wandering  minstrel  cometh  here 
In  the  young  night? 

VOICE    [In  distance — singing] 


330      THE   FLYING  ISLANDS   OF    THE  NIGHT 

The  drowsy  eyes  of  the  stars  grow  dim; 
The  ivamboo  roosts  on  the  rainbow's  rim, 

And  the  moon  is  a  ghost  of  shine: 
The  soothing  song  of  the  crule  is  done, 
But  the  song  of  love  is  a  soother  one, 

And  the  song  of  love  is  mine. 
Then,  wake!  O  wake! 
For  the  sweet  song's  sake. 

Nor  let  my  heart 
With  the  morning  break! 

AMPHINE 

Some  serenader!    Hist! 
What  meaneth  he  so  early,  and  what  thus 
Within  the  palace  garden-close  ?   Quick ;  here ! 
He  neareth  !     Soh  !     Let  us  conceal  ourselves 
And  mark  his  action,  wholly  unobserved. 

[AMPHINE  and  DWAINIE  enter  bower} 
VOICE     [Drawing  nearer} 

The  mist  of  the  morning,  chill  and  gray, 
Wraps  the  night  in  a  shroud  of  spray; 

The  sun  is  a  crimson  blot: 
The  moon  fades  fast,  and  the  stars  take  wing; 
The  comet's  tail  is  a  fleeting  thing — 

But  the  tale  of  love  is  not. 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS   OF   THE   NIGHT 

Then,  wake!  0  wake! 
For  the  sweet  song's  sake, 

Nor  let  my  heart 
With  the  morning  break! 

[Enter  JUCKLET] 
JUCKLET 

Eexl  what  a  sumptuous  darkness  is  the  Night- 
How  rich  and  deep  and  suave  and  velvety 
Its  lovely  blackness  to  a  soul  like  mine! 
Ah,  Night !  thou  densest  of  all  mysteries— 
Thou  eeriest  of  unfathomable  delights, 
Whose  soundless  sheer  inscrutability 
Is  fascination's  own  ethereal  self, 
Unseen,  and  yet  embodied— palpable,— 
An  essence,  yet  a  form  of  stableness 
That  stays  me— weighs  me,  as  a  giant  palm 
Were  laid  on  either  shoulder.— Peace !  I  cease 
Even  to  strive  to  grope  one  further  pace, 
But  stand  uncovered  and  with  lifted  face. 

0  but  a  glamour  of  inward  light 

Hath  smitten  the  eyes  of  my  soul  to-night ! 
Groping  here  in  the  garden-land, 

1  feel  my  fancy's  outheld  hand 
Touch  the  rim  of  a  realm  that  seems 
Like  an  isle  of  bloom  in  a  sea  of  dreams: 
I  stand  mazed,  dazed  and  alone— alone  !— 
My  heart  beats  on  in  an  undertone, 

And  I  lean  and  listen  long,  and  long, 


331 


332      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

And  I  hold  my  breath  as  I  hear  again 
The  chords  of  a  long-dead  trentoraine 
And  the  wraith  of  an  old  love-song. 
Low  to  myself  am  I  whispering: — 

Glad  am  I,  and  the  Night  knows  why — 
Glad  am  I  that  the  dream  came  by 
And  found  me  here  as  of  old  when  I 
Was  a  ruler  and  a  king. 

DWAINIE     [To  Amphine] 

What  gentle  little  monster  is  this  dwarf — 
Surely  not  Jucklet  of  the  court  ? 

AMPHINE    [Ironically] 

Ay,  ay! 

But  he'll  ungentle  an  thy  woman's-heart 
Yield  him  but  space.  Listen :  he  mouths  again. 

JUCKLET 

It  was  an  age  ago — an  age 

Turned  down  in  life  like  a  folded  page. — 

See  where  the  volume  falls  apart, 

And  the  faded  book-mark — 'tis  my  heart, — 

Nor  mine  alone,  but  another  knit 

So  cunningly  in  the  love  of  it 

That  you  must  look,  with  a  shaking  head, 

Nor  know  the  quick  one  from  the  dead. 

Ah !  what  a  broad  and  sea-like  lawn 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE   NIGHT      333 

Is  the  field  of  love  they  bloom  upon ! — 

Waves  of  its  violet-velvet  grass 

Billowing,  with  the  winds  that  pass, 

And  breaking  in  a  snow-white  foam 

Of  lily-crests  on  the  shores  of  home. 

Low  to  myself  am  I  whispering: — 

Glad  am  I,  and  the  Night  knoivs  ivhy — 
Glad  am  I  that  the  dream  came  by 
And  found  me  here  as  of  old  when  I 
Was  a  ruler  and  a  king. 

[Abruptly  breaking  into  impassioned  vocal  burst] 
SONG 

Fold  me  away  in  your  arms,  O  Night — 
Night,  my  Night,  with  your  rich  black 

hair ! — 

Tumble  it  down  till  my  yearning  sight 
And  my  unkissed  lips  are  hidden  quite 
And  my  heart  is  havened  there, — 
Under  that  mystical  dark  despair — 
Under  your  rich  black  hair. 

Oft  have  I  looked  in  your  eyes,  O  Night — 
Night,  my  Night,  with  your  rich  black 

hair ! — \ 

Looked  in  your  eyes  till  my  face  waned  white 
And  my  heart  laid  hold  of  a  mad  delight 
That  moaned  as  I  held  it  there 

Under  the  deeps  of  that  dark  despair — 
Under  your  rich  black  hair. 


334      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

Just  for  a  kiss  of  your  mouth,  O  Night — 
Night,  my  Night,  with  your  rich  black 

hair!— 

Lo!  will  I  wait  as  a  dead  man  might 
Wait  for  the  Judgment's  dawning  light, 
With  my  lips  in  a  frozen  prayer — 
Under  this  lovable  dark  despair — 
Under  your  rich  black  hair. 

[With  swift  change  to  mood  of  utter  gaiety} 

Ho !  ho !  what  will  my  dainty  mistress  say 

When  I  shall  stand  knee-deep  in  the  wet  grass 

Beneath  her  lattice,  and  with  upturned  eyes 

And  tongue  out-lolling  like  the  clapper  of 

A  bell,  outpour  her  that?    I  wonder  now 

If  she  will  not  put  up  her  finger  thus, 

And  say,  "Hist !  heart  of  mine !  the  angels  call 

To  thee !"    Ho  !  ho !    Or  will  her  blushing  face 

Light  up  her  dim  boudoir  and,  from  her  glass, 

Flare  back  to  her  a  flame  upsprouting  from 

The  hot-cored  socket  of  a  soul  whose  light 

She  thought  long  since  had  guttered  out  ? — Ho !  ho ! 

Or,  haply,  will  she  chastely  bend  above — 

A  Parian  phantomette,  with  head  atip 

And  twinkling  fingers  dusting  down  the  dews 

That  glitter  on  the  tarapyzma-vines 

That  riot  round  her  casement — gathering 

Lush  blooms  to  pelt  me  with  while  I  below 

All  winkingly  await  the  fragrant  shower? 

Ho!  ho!  how  jolly  is  this  thing  of  love! 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE   NIGHT      335 

But  how  much  richer,  rarer,  jollier 

Than  all  the  loves  is  this  rare  love  of  mine ! 

Why,  my  sweet  Princess  doth  not  even  dream 

I  am  her  lover, — for,  to  here  confess, 

I  have  a  way  of  wooing  all  mine  own, 

And  waste  scant  speech  in  creamy  compliment 

And  courtesies  all  gaumed  with  winy  words. — 

In  sooth,  I  do  not  woo  at  all — I  win! 

How  is  it  now  the  old  duet  doth  glide 

Itself  full  ripplingly  adown  the  grooves 

Of  its  quaint  melody? — And  whoso,  by 

The  bye,  or  by  the  way,  or  for  the  nonce, 

Or,  eke  ye,  per  adventure,  ever  durst 

Render  a  duet  singly  but  myself? 

[Singing — with  grotesque  mimicry  of  two  voices] 
JUCKLET'S  OSTENSIBLE  DUET 

How  is  it  you  woo? — and  now  answer  me  true, — 

How  is  it  you  woo  and  you  win? 
Why,  to  answer  you  true,— -the  first  thing  that  you 
do 

Is  to  simply,  my  dearest — begin. 

But  how  can  I  begin  to  woo  or  to  win 
When  I  don't  know  a  Win  from  a  Woo? 

Why,  cover  your  chin  with  your  fan  or  your  fin. 
And  I'll  introduce  them  to  you. 


336      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE  NIGHT 

But  what  if  it  drew  from  my  parents  a  view 

With,  my  own  in  no  manner  akin  ? 
No  matter! — your  mew  shall  be  first  of  the  two, — 

So  I  hasten  to  usher  them  in. 

Nay,  stay !    Shall  I  grin  at  the  Woo  or  the  Win  ? 

And  what  will  he  do  if  I  do? 
Why,  the  Woo  will  begin  with  "How  pleasant  it's 
been !" 

And  the  Win  with  "Delighted  with  you!" 

Then  supposing  he  grew  very  dear  to  my  view — 
I'm  speaking,  you  know,  of  the  Win  ? 

Why,  then,  you  should  do  what  he  wanted  you  to, — 
And  now  is  the  time  to  begin. 

The  time  to  begin?    O  then  usher  him  in — 
Let  him  say  what  he  wants  me  to  do. 

He  is  here. — He's  a  twin  of  yourself, — /  am  "Win," 
And  you  are,  my  darling,  my  "Woo" ! 

[Capering  and  courtesying  to  feigned  audience} 

That  song  I  call  most  sensible  nonsense ; 
And  if  the  fair  and  peerless  Dwainie  were 
But  here,  with  that  sweet  voice  of  hers,  to  take 
The  part  of  "Woo,"  I'd  be  the  happiest  "Win" 
On  this  side  of  futurity !    Ho !  ho ! 

DWAINIE    [Aside  to  AMPHINE] 
What  means  he? 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS   OF    THE   NIGHT      337 
AMPHINE 

Why,  he  means  that  throatless  head 
Of  his  needs  further  chucking  down  betwixt 
His  cloven  shoulders ! 

[Starting  forward — Dwainie  detaining  him] 
DWAINIE 

Nay,  thou  shalt  not  stir ! 
See !  now  the  monster  hath  discovered  our 
Repast.    Hold !    Let  us  mark  him  further. 

JUCKLET    [Archly  eying  viands] 

What! 

A  roasted  wheffle  and  a  toe-spiced  whum, 
Tricked  with  a  larvey  and  a  gherghgling's  tail ! — 
And,  sprit  me !  wine  enough  to  swim  them  in ! 
Now  I  should  like  to  put  a  question  to 
The  guests;  but  as  there  are  none,  I  direct 
Aline  interrogatory  to  the  host.     [Bowing  to  va 
cancy] 

Am  I  behind  time? — Then  I  can  but  trust 
My  tardy  coming  may  be  overlooked 
In  my  most  active  effort  to  regain 
A  gracious  tolerance  by  service  now : — 
Directing  rapt  attention  to  the  fact 
That  I  have  brought  mine  appetite  along, 


338      THE   FLYING   ISLANDS   OF    THE   NIGHT 

I  can  but  feel,  ho !  ho !  that  further  words 
Would  be  a  waste  of  speech. 

[Sits  at  table — pours  out  wine,  drinks  and  eats 
voraciously} 

— There  was  a  time 

When  I  was  rather  backward  in  my  ways 
In  courtly  company  (as  though,  forsooth, 
I  felt  not,  from  my  very  birth,  the  swish 
Of  royal  blood  along  my  veins,  though  bred 
Amongst  the  treacled  scullions  and  the  thralls 
I  shot  from,  like  a  cork,  in  youthful  years, 
Into  court  favor  by  my  wit's  sheer  stress 
Of  fomentation. — Pah!  the  stench  o'  toil!) 
Ay,  somehow,  as  I  think,  I've  all  outgrown 
That  coarse,  nice  age,  wherein  one  makes  a  meal 
Of  two  estardles  and  a  fork  cf  soup. 
Hey!  sanaloo!    Lest  my  starved  stomach  stand 
Awe-stricken  and  aghast,  with  mouth  agape 
Before  the  rich  profusion  of  this  feast, 
I  lubricate  it  with  a  glass  of  merl 
And  coax  it  on  to  more  familiar  terms 
Of  fellowship  with  those  delectables. 
[Pours  wine  and  holds  up  goblet  with  mock  courtl\ 

ness] 

Mine  host! — Thou  of  the  viewless  presence  and 
Hush-haunted  lip : — Thy  most  imperial, 
Ethereal,  and  immaterial  health! 
Live  till  the  sun  dries  up,  and  comb  thy  cares 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS   OF    THE   NIGHT      339 

With  star-prongs  till  the  comets  fizzle  out 
And  fade  away  and  fail  and  are  no  more ! 

[Drains  and  refills  goblet] 
And,  if  thou  wilt  permit  me  to  observe, — 
The  gleaming  shaft  of  spirit  in  this  wine 
Goes  whistling  to  its  mark,  and  full  and  fair 
Zipps  to  the  target-center  of  my  soul ! 
Why,  now  am  I  the  veriest  gentleman 
That  ever  buttered  woman  with  a  smile, 
And  let  her  melt  and  run  and  drip  and  ooze 
All  over  and  around  a  wanton  heart ! 
And  if  my  mistress  bent  above  me  now, 
In  all  my  hideous  deformity, 
I  think  she  would  look  over,  as  it  were, 
The  hump  upon  my  back,  and  so  forget 
The  kinks  and  knuckles  of  my  crooked  legs, 
In  this  enchanting  smile,  she  needs  must  leap, 
Love-dazzled,  and  fall  faint  and  fluttering 
Within  these  yawning,  all-devouring  arms 
Of  mine!     Ho!  ho!     And  yet  Crestillomeem 
Would  have  me  blight  my  dainty  Dwainie  with 
This  feather  from  the  Devil's  wing!— But  I 
Am  far  too  full  of  craft  to  spoil  the  eyes 
That  yet  shall  pour  their  love  like  nectar  out 
Into  mine  own, — and  I  am  far  too  deep 
For  royal  wit  to  wade  my  purposes. 

DWAINIE    [To  AMPHINE] 
What  can  he  mean? 


340      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 
AMPHINE    [Chafing  in  suppressed  frenzy} 

Ha !  to  rush  forward  and 
Tear  out  his  tongue  and  slap  it  in  his  face! 

DWAINIE    \To  AMPHINE] 
Nay,  nay  !    Hist  what  he  saith ! 

JUCKLET 

How  big  a  fool — 
How  all  magnificent  an  idiot 
Would  I  be  to  blight  her — (my  peerless  one! — 
My  very  soul's  soul!)  as  Crestillomeem 
Doth  instigate  me  to,  for  her  hate's  sake — 
And  inward  jealousy,  as  well,  belike! — 
Wouldst  have  my  Dwainie  blinded  to  my  charms — 
For  charms,  good  sooth,  were  every  several  flaw 
Of  my  malformed  outer-self,  compared 
With  that  his  Handsomeness  the  Prince  Amphine 
Shalt  change  to  at  a  breath  of  my  pufl'd  cheek, 
E'en  were  it  weedy-bearded  at  the  time 
With  such  a  stubble  as  a  huntsman  well 
Might  lose  his  spaniel  in!    Ho!  ho!    Ho!  ho! 
I  fear  me,  O  my  coy  Crestillomeem, 
Thine  ancient  coquetry  doth  challenge  still 
Thine  own  vain  admiration  overmuch! 
7  to  crush  her? — when  thou,  as  certainly, 
Hast  armed  me  to  smite  down  the  only  bar 
That  lies  betwixt  her  love  and  mine  ?    Ho !  ho ! 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS   OF   THE   NIGHT     341 

Hey !  but  the  revel  I  shall  riot  in 

Above  the  beauteous  Prince,  instantuously 

Made  all  abhorrent  as  a  reptiled  bulk! 

Ho !  ho !  my  princely  wooer  of  the  fair 

Rare  lady  of  mine  own  superior  choice ! 

Pah!  but  my  very  'maginings  of  him 

Refined  to  that  shamed,  sickening  shape, 

Do  so  beloathe  me  of  him  there  be  qualms 

Expostulating  in  my  forum  now ! 

Ho !  what  unprincifying  properties 

Of  medication  hath  her  Majesty 

Put  in  my  tender  charge !    Ho !  ho !    Ho !  ho ! 

Ah,  Dwainie!  sweetest  sweet!  what  shock  to 

thee?— 

I  wonder  when  she  sees  the  human  toad 
Squat  at  her  feet  and  cock  his  filmy  eyes 
Upon  her  and  croak  love,  if  she  will  not 
Call  me  to  tweezer  him  with  two  long  sticks 
And  toss  him  from  her  path. — O  ho  !  Ho  !  ho ! 
Hell  bend  him  o'er  some  blossom  quick,  that  I 
May  have  one  brother  in  the  flesh ! 

[Nods  drowsily] 
DWAINIE    [To  AMPHINE] 

Ha!    See! 

He  groweth  drunken. — Soli!     Bide  yet  a  spell 
And  I  will  vex  him  with  my  sorcery : 
Then  shall  we  hence, — for  lo,  the  node  when  all 
Our  sublest  arts  and  strategies  must  needs 


342      THE   FLYING  ISLANDS   OF    THE  NIGHT 

Be  quickened  into  acts  and  swift  results. 
Now  bide  thou  here,  and  in  mute  silence  mark 
The  righteous  penalty  that  hath  accrued 
Upon  that  dwarfed  monster. 

[She  stands,  still  in  concealment  from  the  dwarf, 
her  tense  gaze  fixed  upon  him  as  though  in 
mute  and  painful  act  of  incantation. — JUCKLET 
affected  drowsily — yawns  and  mumbles  inco 
herently — stretches,  and  gradually  sinks  at  full 
length  on  the  sward. — DWAINIE  moves  for 
ward — AMPHINE,  following,  is  about  to  set 
foot  contemptuously  on  sleeper's  breast,  but  is 
caught  and  held  away  by  DWAINIE,  who  impe 
riously  waves  him  back,  and  still,  in  pantomime, 
commanding,  bids  him  turn  and  hide  his  face 
— AMPHINE  obeying  as  though  unable  to  do 
otherwise.  Dwainie  then  unbinds  her  hair,  and 
throwing  it  all  forward  covering  her  face  and 
bending  till  it  trails  the  ground,  she  lifts  to  the 
knee  her  dress,  and  so  walks  backzvard  in  a  cir 
cle  round  the  sleeping  JUCKLET,  crooning  to  her 
self  an  incoherent  song.  Then  pausing,  letting 
fall  her  gown,  and  rising  to  full  stature,  waves 
her  hands  above  the  sleeper's  face,  and  runs  to 
AMPHINE,  who  turns  about  and  gazes  on  her 
with  new  wonderment.] 

DWAINIE    [To  AMPHINE] 

Now  shalt  thou 
Look  on  such  scaith  as  thou  hath  never  dreamed. 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS   OF    THE   NIGHT      343 

[As  she  speaks,  half  averting  her  face  as  with  mel 
ancholy  apprehension,  chorus  of  lugubrious 
voices  heard  chanting  discordantly} 

VOICES 

When  the  fat  moon  smiles, 
And  the  comets  kiss, 

And  the  elves  of  Spirkland  flit 
The  Whanghoo  twunkers 
A  tune  like  this, 

And  the  Nightmares  champ  the  bit. 

[As  chorus  dies  away,  a  comet,  freighted  with 
weird  shapes,  dips  from  the  night  and  trails 
near  JUCKLET'S  sleeping  figure,  while  with  at 
tendant  goblin-forms,  two  Nightmares,  CREECH 
and  GRITCHFANG,  alight. — The  comet  kisses, 
switches  its  tail  and  disappears,  while  the  two 
goblins  hover  buzzingly  over  JUCKLET,  who 
starts  wide-eyed  and  stares  fixedly  at  them, 
with  horribly  contorted  features.} 

CREECH  [To  GRITCHFANG] 

Buzz! 

Buzz! 

Buzz! 

Buzz! 

Flutter  your  wings  like  your  grandmother  does! 
Tuck  in  your  chin  and  wheel  over  and  whir-r-r 


344      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

Like  a  dickerbug  fast  in  the  web  of  the  wtihrr! 
Reel  out  your  tongue,  and  untangle  your  toes 
And  rattle  your  claws  o'er  the  bridge  of  his  nose; 
Tickle  his  ears  with  your  feathers  and  fuzz, 
And  keep  up  a  hum  like  your  grandmother  does ! 

[JUCKLET  moans  and  clutches  at  air  convulsively} 
AMPHINE  [Shuddering'} 

Most  gruesome  sight!     See  how  the  poor  worm 

writhes ! 
How  must  he  suffer! 

DWAINIE 

Ay,  but  good  is  meant — 
A  far  voice  sings  it  so. 

GRITCHFANG  [To  CREECH] 

Let  me  dive  deep  in  his  nostriline  caves 
And  keep  an  eye  out  as  to  how  he  behaves : 
Fasten  him  down  while  I  put  him  to  rack — 
And  don't  let  him  flop  from  the  flat  of  his  back ! 
[Shrinks  to   minute  size,  while  goblin  attendants 
pluck  from  shrubbery  a  great  lily-shaped  flower 
which  they  invert  funnel-wise,  with  small  end 
at  sleeper's  nostrils,  hoisting  GRITCHFANG  in 
at  top  and  jostling  shape  downward  gradually 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE   NIGHT     345 

from  sight,  and — removing  flower, — voice  of 
GRITCHFANG  continues  gleefully  from  within 
sleeper's  head] 

Ho !  I  have  bored  through  the  floor  of  his  brains, 
And  set  them  all  writhing  with  torturous  pains; 
And  I  shriek  out  the  prayer,  as  I  whistle  and  whiz, 
I  may  be  the  nightmare  that  my  grandmother  is ! 
[Reappears,  through  reversal  of  flower  method,  as 
suming  former  shape,  crosses  to  CREECH,  and, 
joining,  the  twain  dance  on  sleeper's  stomach 
in  broken  time  to  duo] 

Duo 

Whing! 

Whang! 

So  our  ancestors  sang! 
And  they  guzzled  hot  blood  and  blew  up  with  a 

bang! — 

But  they  ever  tenaciously  clung  to  the  rule 
To  only  blow  up  in  the  hull  of  a  fool — 
To  fizz  and  explode  like  a  cast-iron  toad 
In  the  cavernous  depths  where  his  victuals  were 

stowed — 

When  chances  were  ripest  and  thickest  and  best 
To  burst  every  buttonhole  out  of  his  vest ! 

[They  pause,  float  high  above.,  and  fusing  together 
into  a  great  square  iron  weight  drop 
heavily  on  chest  of  sleeper,  who  moans  pite- 
ously.] 


346      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 
AMPHINE    [Hiding  his  face] 

Ah !  take  me  hence ! 

[DWAINIE  leads  him  off,  looking  backivard  as  she 
goes  and  waving  her  hands  imploringly  to 
CREECH  and  GRITCHFANG,  reassuming  former 
shapes,  in  ecstasies  of  insane  delight] 

CREECH  [To  GRITCHFANG] 
Zipp! 

Zipp! 

Zipp! 

Zipp! 

Sting  his  tongue  raw  and  unravel  his  lip  I 
Grope,  on  the  right,  down  his  windpipe,  and  squeeze 
His  liver  as  dry  as  a  petrified  wheeze ! 
[GRITCHFANG — as  before — shrinks  and  disappears 

at  sleeper's  mouth] 

Throttle  his  heart  till  he's  black  in  the  face, 
And  bury  it  down  in  some  desolate  place 
Where  only  remorse  in  pent  agony  lives 
To  dread  the  advice  that  your  grandmother  gives ! 

[The  sleeper  struggles  contortedly,  while  voice  of 
GRITCHFANG  calls  from  within] 

GRITCHFANG 

Ho-ho !  I  have  clambered  the  rungs  of  his  ribs 
And  beriddled  his  lungs  into  tatters  and  dribs; 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS   OF   THE   NIGHT      347 

And  I  turn  up  the  tube  of  his  heart  like  a  hose 
And  squirt  all  the  blood  to  the  end  of  his  nose ! 
I  stamp  on  his  stomach  and  caper  and  prance, 
With  my  tail  tossing  round  like  a  boomerang-lance ! 
And  thus  may  success  ever  crown  my  intent 
To  wander  the  ways  that  my  grandmother  went ! 

[Reappears,    falls    hysterically    in    CREECH'S    out 
stretched  arms. — Then  dance  and  duo.} 

Duo 
Whing! 

Whung! 

So  our  ancestors  sung! 
And  they  snorted  and  pawed,  and  they  hissed  and 

they  stung, — 

Taking  special  terrific  delight  in  their  work 
On  the  fools  that  they  found  in  the  lands  of  the 

Spirk. — 

And  each  little  grain  of  their  powders  of  pain 
They  scraped  up  and  pestled  again  and  again — 
Mixed  in  quadruple  doses  for  gluttons  and  sots, 
Till  they  strangled  their  dreams  with  gung-jibbrous 
knots ! 

{The  comet  again  trails  past,  upon  which  the  Night 
mares  leap  and  disappear.  JUCKLET  staggers 
to  his  feet  and  glares  frenziedly  around — then 
starts  for  opposite  exit  of  comet — is  there  sud 
denly  confronted  with  fiend-faces  in  the  air, 
bewhiskered  with  ragged  purplish  -flames  that 


348      THE   FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

Hare  audibly  and  huskily  in  abrupt  alternating 
chill  gasps  and  hot  welterings  of  wind.  He 
starts  back  from  them,  reels  and  falls  prostrate^ 
groveling  terrifiedly  in  the  dust,  and  chattering, 
with  eerie  music  accompanying  his  broken  ut 
terance.] 

JUCKLET 

yEo!  JEoi  ;EO! 

Thou  dost  all  things  know — 

Waving  all  claims  of  mine  to  dare  to  pray, 
Save  that  I  needs  must: — Lo, 

What  may  I  pray  for?    Yea, 

I  have  not  any  way, 
An  Thou  gainsayest  me  a  tolerance  so. — 

I  dare  not  pray 

Forgiveness — too  great 

My  vast  o'ertoppling  weight 

Of  sinning;  nor  can  I 

Pray  my 

Poor  soul  unscourged  to  go. — 
Frame  Thou  my  prayer,  y£o! 

What  may  I  pray  for?     Dare 
I  shape  a  prayer, 
In  sooth, 
For  any  canceled  joy 

Of  my  mad  youth, 

Or  any  bliss  my  sin's  stress  did  destroy? 
What  may  I  pray  for — What? — 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE   NIGHT      349 

That  the  wild  clusters  of   forget-me-not 

And  mignonette 

And  violet 
Be  out  of  childhood  brought, 

And  in  mine  hard  heart  set 
A-blooming  now  as  then?  — 

With  all  their  petals  yet 
Bediamonded  with  dews  — 
Their  sweet,  sweet  scent  let  loose 
Full  sumptuously  again! 


What  may  I  pray, 

For  the  poor  hutched  cot 
Where   death    sate    squat 
Midst  my  first  memories?  —  Lo! 
My  mother's  face  —  (they,  whispering,  told  me 

so)  — 

That  face!  —  so  pinchedly 
It  blanched  up,  as  they  lifted  me  — 
Its  frozen  eyelids  would 
Not  part,  nor  could 

Be  ever  wetted  open  with  warm  tears. 
.     .     .     Who  hears 
The  prayers  for  all  dead-mother-sakes,  JEol 

Leastwise  one  mercy:  —  May 

I  not  have  leave  to  pray 

All  self  to  pass  away  — 

Forgetful  of  all  needs  mine  own  — 
Neglectful  of  all  creeds;  —  alone, 


350      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   O'F   THE  NIGHT 

Stand  fronting  Thy  high  throne  and  say: 

To  Thee, 
O  Infinite,  I  pray 

Shield  Thou  mine  enemy! 

{Music  throughout  supplication  gradually  softens 
and  sweetens  into  utter  gentleness,  with  scene 
slow-fading  into  densest  night.} 


END  ACT  II 


From  a  photograph  taken  when  twenty- 
two  years  old 


ACT  III 

SCENE  I.  Court  of  KRUNO— Royal  Ministers, 
Counselors,  etc.,  in  session.  CRESTILLOMEEM, 
in  full  blazonry  of  regal  attire,  presiding.  She 
signals  a  Herald  at  her  left,  who  steps  for 
ward. — Blare  of  trumpets,  greeted  with  om 
inous  murmurings  within,  blent  with  tumult 
from  without. 

HERALD 

Hist,  ho!    Ay,   ay!    Ay,   ay!— Her   Majesty, 
The  All-Glorious  and  Ever-Gracious  Queen, 
Crestillomeem,  to  her  most  loyal,  leal 
And  right  devoted  subjects,  greeting  sends— 
Proclaiming,  in  the  absence  of  the  King, 
Her  royal  presence — 

[Voice  of  Herald  fails  abruptly— utterly.— A 
breathless  hush  falls  sudden  on  the  court. — A 
sense  oppressive — ominous — affects  the  throng. 
Weird  music  heard  of  unseen  instruments.] 

HERALD  [Huskily  striving  to  be  heard] 

Hist,  ho!  Ay,  ay!  Ay,  ay!— Her  Majesty, 
351 


352      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

The  All-Glorious  and  Ever-Gracious  Queen, 
Crestillomeem — 


[The  Queen  gasps,  and  clutches  at  Herald,  mutely 
signing  him  to  silence,  her  staring  eyes  fixed  on 
a  shadowy  figure,  mistily  developing  before  her 
into  wraith-like  form  and  likeness  of  The 
Tune-Fool,  SPRAIVOLL.  The  shape — evidently 
invisible  and  voiceless  to  all  senses  but  the 
Queen's — wavers  vaporishly  to  and  fro  before 
her,  moaning  and  crooning  in  infinitely  sweet- 
sad  minor  cadences  a  mystic  song.] 

WRAITH-SONG  OF  SPRAIVOLL 

I  will  not  hear  the  dying  word 
Of  any  friend,  nor  stroke  the  wing 

Of  any  little  wounded  bird. 

.     .     .    Love  is  the  deadest  thing! 

I  wist  not  if  I  see  the  smile 

Of  prince  or  wight,  in  court  or  lane. — 

I  only  know  that  afterwhile 
He  will  not  smile  again. 

The  summer  blossom,  at  my  feet, 
Swims  backward,  drowning  in  the  grass. — 

7  will  not  stay  to  name  it  sweet — 
Sink  out!  and  let  me  pass! 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS   OF   THE   NIGHT      353 

/  have  no  mind  to  feel  the  touch 

Of  gentle  hands  on  brow  and  hair. — 

The  lack  of  this  once  pained  me  much, 
And  so  I  have  a  care. 

Dead  weeds,  and  husky-rustling  leaves 
That  beat  the  dead  boughs  zuhere  ye  cling. 

And  old  dead  nests  beneath  the  eaves — 
Love  is  the  deadest  thing! 

Ah!  once  I  fared  not  all  alone; 

And  once — no  matter,  rain  or  snow! — 
The  stars  of  summer  ever  shone — 

Because  I  loved  him  so! 

With  always   tremblings   in   his   hands, 

And  always  blushes  unaware, 
And  always  ripples  down  the  strands 

Of  his  long  yellow  hair. 

I  needs  must  weep  a  little  space, 

Remembering  his  laughing  eyes 
And  curving  lip,  and  lifted  face 

Of  rapture  and  surprise. 

0  joy  is  dead  in  every  part, 
And  life  and  hope;  and  so  I  sing: 

In  all  the  graveyard  of  my  heart 
Love  is  the  deadest  thing! 


'    356      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

GUARD 

O  Queen,  'tis  he  who  cries  "Conspiracy !" 
And  who  incites  the  mob  without  with  cries 
Of  "Plot!"  and  "Treason!" 

CRESTILLOMEEM    [Starting'] 

Ha !  Can  this  be  true  ? 
I'll  not  believe  it ! — Jucklet  is  my  fool, 
But  not  so  vast  a  fool  that  he  would  tempt 
His  gracious  Sovereign's  ire.    [To  Guards]    Let 
him  be  freed ! 

[Then  to  JUCKLET,  with  mock  service] 
Stand  hither,  O  my  Fool ! 

JUCKLET    [To  Queen] 

What!  I,  thy  fool? 

Ho!  ho!    Thy  fool?— ho!  ho!— Why,  thou  art 
mine ! 

[Confusion — cries  of  "Strike  down  the  traitor!" 
JUCKLET*  wrenching  himself  from  grasp  of 
officers] 

Back,  all  of  ye !    I  have  not  waded  hell 
That  I  should  fear  your  puny  enmity ! 
Here  will  I  give  ye  proof  of  all  I  say! 


THE  FLYING   ISLANDS   OF    THE   NIGHT      357 

{Presses  toward  throne,  wedging  his  op  posers  left 
and  right — CRESTILLOMEEM  sits  as  though 
stricken  speechless — pallid,  waving  him  back — 
JUCKLET,  fairly  fronting  her,  with  folded  arms 
— then  to  throng  continues.} 

Lo!  do  I  here  defy  her  to  lift  up 

Her  voice  and  say  that  Jucklet  speaks  a  lie. 

[At  sign  of  Queen,  Officers,  unperceived  by  JUCK 
LET,  close  warily  behind  him.} 

And,  further — I  pronounce  the  document 
That  craven  Herald  there  holds  in  his  hand 
A  forgery — a  trick — and  dare  the  Queen, 
Here  in  my  listening  presence,  to  command 
Its  further  utterance! 

CRESTILLOMEEM    [Wildly  rising} 

Hold,  hireling !— Fool  !— 
The  Queen  thou  dost  in  thy  mad  boasts  insult 
Shall  utter  first  thy  doom! 

[JUCKLET,  seized  from  behind  by  Guards,  is  hurled 
face  upward  on  the  dais  at  her  feet,  while  a 
minion,  with  drawn  sword  pressed  close  against 
his  breast,  stands  over  him.} 

— Ere  we  proceed 

With  graver  matters,  let  this  demon-knave 
Be  sent  back  home  to  hell. 


358      THE   FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

[With  awful  stress  of  ire,  form  quivering,  eyes 
glittering  and  features  twitched  and  ashen] 

Give  me  the  sword, — 

The  insult  hath  been  mine — so  even  shall 
The  vengeance  be ! 

[As  CRESTILLOMEEM  seizes  sword  and  bends  for 
ward  to  strike,  JUCKLET,  with  superhuman  ef 
fort,  frees  his  hand,  and,  with  a  sudden  mo 
tion  and  an  incoherent  muttering,  nings  object 
'in  his  assailant's  face, — CRESTILLOMEEM  stag 
gers  backward,  dropping  sword,  and,  with  arms 
tossed  aloft,  shrieks,  totters  and  falls  prone 
upon  the  pave.  In  confusion  following  JUCK- 
LET  mysteriously  vanishes;  and  as  the  bewil 
dered  Courtiers  lift  the  fallen  Queen,  a  clear, 
piercing  voice  of  thrilling  sweetness  is  heard 
singing.] 

VOICE 

The  pride  of  noon  must  wither  soon — 
The  dusk  of  death  must  fall; 

Yet  out  of  darkest  night  the  moon 
Shall  blossom  over  all! 

[For  an  instant  a  dense  cloud  envelops  empty  throne 
— then  gradually  lifts,  discovering  therein 
KRUNG  seated,  in  royal  panoply  and  state,  with 
JUCKLET  in  act  of  presenting  scepter  to  him. — 
Blare  of  trumpets,  and  chorus  of  Courtiers, 
Ministers,  Heralds,  etc.} 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE  NIGHT     359 
CHORUS 

All  hail!    Long  live  the  King! 
KRUNG   [To  throng,  with  grave  salutation] 

Through  y£o's  own  great  providence,  and 

through 

The  intervention  of  an  angel  whom 
I  long  had  deemed  forever  lost  to  me, 
Once  more  your  favored  Sovereign,  do  I  greet 
And  tender  you  my  blessing,  O  most  good 
And  faith-abiding  subjects  of  my  realm! 
In  common,  too,  with  your  long-suffering  King, 
Have  ye  long  suffered,  blamelessly  as  he : 
Now,  therefore,  know  ye  all  what,  until  late, 
He  knew  not  of  himself,  and  with  him  share 
The  rapturous  assurance  that  is  his, — 
That,  for  all  time  to  come,  are  we  restored 
To  the  old  glory  and  most  regal  pride 
And  opulence  and  splendor  of  our  realm. 

[Turning  with  pained  features  to   the  strangely 
stricken  Queen] 

There  have  been,  as  ye  needs  must  know, 

strange  spells 

And  wicked  sorceries  at  work  within 
The  very  dais  boundaries  of  the  Throne. 
Lo !  then,  behold  your  harrier  and  mine, 
And  with  me  grieve  for  the  self-ruined  Queen 


360      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

Who  grovels  at  my  feet,  blind,  speechless,  and 
So  stricken  with  a  curse  herself  designed 
Should  light  upon  Hope's  fairest  minister. 

[Motions  attendants,  who  lead  away  CRESTILLO- 
MEEM — the  King  gazing  after  her,  overmas 
tered  with  stress  of  his  emotions. — He  leans 
heavily  on  throne,  as  though  oblivious  to  all 
surroundings,  and,  shaping  into  speech  his 
varying  thought,  as  in  a  trance,  speaks  as 
though  witless  of  both  utterance  and  auditor.] 

I  loved  her. — Why?   I  never  knew. — Perhaps 
Because  her  face  was  fair;  perhaps  because 
Her  eyes  were  blue  and  wore  a  weary  air ; — 
Perhaps    .    .    .    perhaps  because  her  limpid  face 
Was  eddied  with  a  restless  tide,  wherein 
The  dimples  found  no  place  to  anchor  and 
Abide :  perhaps  because  her  tresses  beat 
A  froth  of  gold  about  her  throat,  and  poured 
In  splendor  to  the  feet  that  ever  seemed 
Afloat.    Perhaps  because  of  that  wild  way 
Her  sudden  laughter  overleapt  propriety ; 
Or — who  will  say  ? — perhaps  the  way  she  wept. 
Ho  !  have  ye  seen  the  swollen  heart  of  summer 
Tempest,  o'er  the  plain,  with  throbs  of  thunder 
Burst  apart  and  drench  the  earth  with  rain?  She 
Wept  like  that. — And  to  recall,  with  one  wild 

glance 
Of  memory,  our  last  love-parting — tears 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE   NIGHT      361 

And  all.    ...    It  thrills  and  maddens  me !    And 

yet 

My  dreams  will  hold  her,  flushed  from  lifted  brow 
To  finger-tips,  with  passion's  ripest  kisses 
Crushed  and  mangled  on  her  lips.    .    .    .    O 

woman!  while 

Your  face  was  fair,  and  heart  was  pure,  and  lips 
Were  true,  and  hope  as  golden  as  your  hair, 
I  should  have  strangled  you! 

[As  KRUNG,  ceasing  to  speak,  piteously  lifts  his 
face,  SPRAIVOLL  all  suddenly  appears,  in  space 
left  vacant  by  the  Queen,  and,  kneeling,  kisses 
the  King's  hand. — He  bends  in  tenderness, 
kissing  her  brow — then  lifts  and  seats  her  at 
his  side.  Speaks  then  to  throng.] 

Good  Subjects — Lords: 
Behold  in  this  sweet  woman  here  my  child, 
Whom,  years  agone,  the  cold,  despicable 
Crestillomeem — by  baleful,   wicked   arts 
And  gruesome  spells  and  fearsome  witcheries — 
Did  spirit  off  to  some  strange  otherland, 
Where,  happily,  a  Wunkland  Princess  found 
Her,  and  undid  the  spell  by  sorcery 
More  potent — ay,  Divine,  since  it  works  naught 
But  good — the  gift  of  yEo,  to  right  wrong. 
This  magic  dower  the  Wunkland  Princess  hath 
Enlisted  in  our  restoration  here, 
In  secret  service,  till  this  joyful  hour 
Of  our  complete  deliverance.     Even  thus. — 
I  o,  let  the  peerless  Princess  now  appear ! 


362      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS   OF   THE  NIGHT 

[He  lifts  scepter,  and  a  gust  of  melody,  divinely 
beautiful,  sweeps  through  the  court. — The  star 
above  the  throne  loosens  and  drops  slowly 
downward,  bursting  like  a  bubble  on  the  scep 
ter-tip,  and,  issuing  therefrom,  AMPHINE  and 
DWAINIE,  hand  in  hand,  kneel  at  the  feet  of 
KRUNG,  who  bends  above  them  with  his  bless 
ing,  while  JUCKLET  capers  wildly  round  the 
group.] 

JUCKLET 

Ho!  ho!  but  I  could  shriek  for  very  joy! 
And  though  my  recent  rival,  fair  Amphine, 
Doth  even  now  bend  o'er  a  blossom,  I, 
Besprit  me!  have  no  lingering  desire 
To  meddle  with  it,  though  with  but  one  eye 
I  slept  the  while  she  backward  walked  around 
Me  in  the  garden. 

[AMPHINE  dubiously  smiles — JUCKLET  blinks  and 
leers — and  DWAINIE  bites  her  finger.} 

KRUNG 

Peace!  good  Jucklet!    Peace! 
For  this  is  not  a  time  for  any  jest. — 
Though  the  old  order  of  our  realm  hath  been 
Restored,  and  though  restored  my  very  life — 
Though  I  have  found  a  daughter, — I  have  lost 


THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF   THE  NIGHT      363 

A  son — for  Dwainie,  with  her  sorcery, 
Will,  on  the  morrow,  carry  him  away. 
'Tis  y£o's  largess,  as  our  love  is  His, 
And  our  abiding  trust  and  gratefulness. 


CURTAIN 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY— A  SKETCH 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY— A  SKETCH 

On  an  early  day  in  a  memorable  October,  Reuben 
A.  Riley  and  his  wife,  Elizabeth  Marine  Riley,  re 
joiced  over  the  birth  of  their  second  son.  They 
called  him  James  Whitcomb.  This  was  in  a  shady 
little  street  in  the  shady  little  town  of  Greenfield, 
which  is  in  the  county  of  Hancock  and  the  state  of 
Indiana.  The  young  James  found  a  brother  and  a 
sister  waiting  to  greet  him — John  Andrew  and  Mar 
tha  Celestia,  and  afterward  came  Elva  May — Mrs. 
Henry  Eitel — Alexander  Humbolt  and  Mary  Eliza 
beth,  who,  of  all,  alone  lives  to  see  this  collection  of 
her  brother's  poems. 

James  Whitcomb  was  a  slender  lad,  with  corn-silk 
hair  and  wide  blue  eyes.  He  was  shy  and  timid,  not 
strong  physically,  dreading,  the  cold  of  winter,  and 
avoiding  the  rougher  sports  of  his  playmates.  And 
yet  he  was  full  of  the  spirit  of  youth,  a  spirit  that 
manifested  itself  in  the  performance  of  many  in 
genious  pranks.  His  every-day  life  was  that  of  the 
average  boy  in  the  average  country  town  of  that  day, 
but  his  home  influences  were  exceptional.  His 
father,  who  became  a  captain  of  cavalry  in  the  Civil 
War,  was  a  lawyer  of  ability  and  an  orator  of  more 
367 


368  JAMES    WHITCOMB   RILEY 

than  local  distinction.  His  mother  was  a  woman  of 
rare  strength  of  character  combined  with  deep  sym 
pathy  and  a  clear  understanding.  Together,  they 
made  home  a  place  to  remember  with  thankful 
heart.  When  James  was  twenty  years  old,  the  death 
of  his  mother  made  a  profound  impression  on  him, 
an  impression  that  has  influenced  much  of  his  verse 
and  has  remained  with  him  always. 

At  an  early  age  he  was  sent  to  school  and,  "then 
sent  back  again,"  to  use  his  own  words.  He  was 
restive  under  what  he  called  the  "iron  discipline." 
A  number  of  years  ago,  he  spoke  of  these  early  edu 
cational  beginnings  in  phrases  so  picturesque  and  so 
characteristic  that  they  are  quoted  in  full : 

"My  first  teacher  was  a  little  old  woman,  rosy  and 
roly-poly,  who  looked  as  though  she  might  have 
just  come  tumbling  out  of  a  fairy  story,  so  lovable 
was  she  and  so  jolly  and  so  amiable.  She  kept 
school  in  her  little  Dame-Trot  kind  of  dwelling 
of  three  rooms,  with  a  porch  in  the  rear,  like  a 
bracket  on  the  wall,  which  was  part  of  the  play 
ground  of  her  'scholars/ — for  in  those  days  pupils 
were  called  'scholars'  by  their  affectionate  teachers. 
Among  the  twelve  or  fifteen  boys  and  girls  who 
were  there  I  remember  particularly  a  little  lame  boy, 
who  always  got  the  first  ride  in  the  locust-tree  swing 
during  recess. 

"This  first  teacher  of  mine  was  a  mother  to  all 
her  'scholars/  and  in  every  way  looked  after  their 
comfort,  especially  when  certain  little  ones  grew 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY  369 

drowsy.  I  was  often,  with  others,  carried  to  the  sit 
ting-room  and  left  to  slumber  on  a  small  made-down 
pallet  on  the  floor.  She  would  sometimes  take  three 
or  four  of  us  together ;  and  I  recall  how  a  playmate 
and  I,  having  been  admonished  into  silence,  grew 
deeply  interested  in  watching  a  spare  old  man  who 
sat  at  a  window  with  its  shade  drawn  down.  After 
a  while  we  became  accustomed  to  this  odd  sight  and 
would  laugh,  and  talk  in  whispers  and  give  imita 
tions,  as  we  sat  in  a  low  sewing-chair,  of  the  little 
old  pendulating  blind  man  at  the  window.  Well,  the 
old  man  was  the  gentle  teacher's  charge,  and  for  this 
reason,  possibly,  her  life  had  become  an  heroic  one, 
caring  for  her  helpless  husband  who,  quietly  con 
tent,  waited  always  at  the  window  for  his  sight  to 
come  back  to  him.  And  doubtless  it  is  to-day,  as 
he  sits  at  another  casement  and  sees  not  only  his 
earthly  friends,  but  all  the  friends  of  the  Eternal 
Home,  with  the  smiling,  loyal,  loving  little  woman 
forever  at  his  side. 

"She  was  the  kindliest  of  souls  even  when  con 
strained  to  punish  us.  After  a  Whipping  she  invari 
ably  took  me  into  the  little  kitchen  and  gave  me  two 
great  white  slabs  of  bread  cemented  together  with 
layers  of  butter  and  jam.  As  she  always  whipped  me 
with  the  same  slender  switch  she  used  for  a  pointer, 
and  cried  over  every  lick,  you  will  have  an  idea  how 
much  punishment  I  could  stand.  When  I  was  old 
enough  to  be  lifted  by  the  ears  out  of  my  seat  that 
office  was  performed  by  a  pedagogue  whom  I  prom- 


370  JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILEY 

ised  to  'whip  sure,  if  he'd  just  wait  till  I  got  big 
enough/  He  is  still  waiting! 

"There  was  but  one  book  at  school  in  which  I 
found  the  slightest  interest, — McGuffey's  old 
leather-bound  Reader.  It  was  the  tallest  book 
known,  and  to  the  boys  of  my  size  it  was  a  matter  of 
eternal  wonder  how  I  could  belong  to  'the  big  class 
in  that  reader.'  When  we  were  to  read  the  death  of 
'Little  Nell/  I  would  run  away,  for  I  knew  it  would 
make  me  cry,  that  the  other  boys  would  laugh  at 
me,  and  the  whole  thing  would  become  ridiculous. 
I  couldn't  bear  that.  A  later  teacher,  Captain 
Lee  O.  Harris,  came  to  understand  me  with 
thorough  sympathy,  took  compassion  on  my  weak 
nesses  and  encouraged  me  to  read  the  best  literature. 
He  understood  that  he  couldn't  get  numbers  into  my 
head.  You  couldn't  tamp  them  in !  History  I  also 
disliked  as  a  dry  thing  without  juice,  and  dates 
melted  out  of  my  memory  as  speedily  as  tin-foil  on 
a  red-hot  stove.  But  I  always  was  ready  to  declaim 
and  took  natively  to  anything  dramatic  or  theatrical. 
Captain  Harris  encouraged  me  in  recitation  and 
reading  and  had  ever  the  sweet  spirit  of  a  com 
panion  rather  than  the  manner  of  an  instructor." 

But  if  there  was  "only  one  book  at  school  in  which 
he  found  the  slightest  interest,"  he  had  before  that 
time  displayed  an  affection  for  a  book — simply  as 
such  and  not  for  any  printed  word  it  might  contain. 
And  this,  after  all,  is  the  true  book-lover's  love. 
Speaking  of  this  incident — and  he  likes  to  refer  to  it 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY  371 

as  his  "first  literary  recollection,"  he  says:  "Long 
before  I  was  old  enough  to  read  I  remember  buying 
a  book  at  an  old  auctioneer's  shop  in  Greenfield.  I 
can  not  imagine  what  prophetic  impulse  took  pos 
session  of  me  and  made  me  forego  the  ginger  cakes 
and  the  candy  that  usually  took  every  cent  of  my 
youthful  income.  The  slender  little  volume  must 
have  cost  all  of  twenty-five  cents !  It  was  Francis 
Quarks'  Divine  Emblems, — a  neat  little  affair  about 
the  size  of  a  pocket  Testament.  I  carried  it  around 
with  me  all  day  long,  delighted  with  the  very  feel 
of  it 

"  'What  have  you  got  there,  Bub  ?'  some  one 
would  ask.  'A  book/  I  would  reply.  'What  kind  of 
a  book?'  Toetry-book.'  'Poetry!'  would  be  the 
amused  exclamation.  'Can  you  read  poetry?'  and, 
embarrassed,  I'd  shake  my  head  and  make  my  es 
cape,  but  I  held  on  to  the  beloved  little  volume." 

Every  boy  has  an  early  determination — a  first  one 
— to  follow  some  ennobling  profession,  once  he  has 
come  to  man's  estate,  such  as  being  a  policeman  or  a 
performer  on  the  high  trapeze.  The  poet  would  not 
have  been  the  "People's  Laureate,"  but  the  Green 
field  baker,  had  his  fairy  godmother  granted  his  boy- 
wish.  For  to  his  childish  mind  it  "seemed  the  acme 
of  delight,"  using  again  his  own  happy  expression, 
"to  manufacture  those  snowy  loaves  of  bread,  those 
delicious  tarts,  those  toothsome  bon-bons.  And  then 
to  own  them  all,  to  keep  them  in  store,  to  watch 
over  and  guardedly  exhibit.  The  thought  of  getting 


372  JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY 

money  for  them  was  to  me  a  sacrilege.  Sell  them  ? 
No  indeed.  Eat  'em — eat  'em,  by  tray  loads  and 
dray  loads !  It  was  a  great  wonder  to  me  why  the 
pale-faced  baker  in  our  town  did  not  eat  all  his  good 
things.  This  I  determined  to  do  when  I  became 
owner  of  such  a  grand  establishment.  Yes,  sir.  I 
would  have  a  glorious  feast.  Maybe  I'd  have  Tom 
and  Harry  and  perhaps  little  Kate  and  Florry  in  to 
help  us  once  in  a  while.  The  thought  of  these  play 
mates  as  'grown-up  folks'  didn't  appeal  to  me.  I 
was  but  a  child,  with  wide-open  eyes,  a  healthy  appe 
tite  and  a  wondering  mind.  That  was  all.  But  I 
have  the  same  sweet  tooth  to-day,  and  every  time  I 
pass  a  confectioner's  shop,  I  think  of  the  big  baker 
of  our  town,  and  Tom  and  Harry  and  the  youngsters 
all." 

As  a  child,  he  often  went  with  his  father  to  the 
court-house  where  the  lawyers  and  clerks  playfully 
called  him  "Judge  Wick."  Here  as  a  privileged 
character  he  met  and  mingled  with  the  country  folk 
who  came  to  sue  and  be  sued,  and  thus  early  the 
dialect,  the  native  speech,  the  quaint  expressions  of 
his  "own  people"  were  made  familiar  to  him,  and 
took  firm  root  in  the  fresh  soil  of  his  young  memory. 
At  about  this  time,  he  made  his  first  poetic  attempt 
in  a  valentine  which  he  gave  to  his  mother.  Not 
only  did  he  write  the  verse,  but  he  drew  a  sketch  to 
accompany  it,  greatly  to  his  mother's  delight,  who, 
according  to  the  best  authority,  gave  the  young  poet 
"three  big  cookies  and  didn't  spank  me  for  two 


JAMES   WHIT  COME   RILEY 


373 


weeks.     This  was  my  earliest  literary  encourage 
ment." 

Shortly  after  his  sixteenth  birthday,  young  Riley 
turned  his  back  on  the  little  schoolhouse  and  for 
a  time  wandered  through  the  different  fields  of  art, 
indulging  a  slender  talent  for  painting  until  he 
thought  he  was  destined  for  the  brush  and  palette, 
and  then  making  merry  with  various  musical  instru 
ments,  the  banjo,  the  guitar,  the  violin,  until  finally 
he  appeared  as  bass  drummer  in  a  brass  band.  "In 
a  few  weeks/'  he  says,  "I  had  beat  myself  into  the 
more  enviable  position  of  snare  drummer.  Then  I 
wanted  to  travel  with  a  circus,  and  dangle  my  legs 
before  admiring  thousands  over  the  back  seat  of  a 
Golden  Chariot.  In  a  dearth  of  comic  songs  for  the 
banjo  and  guitar,  I  had  written  two  or  three  myself, 
and  the  idea  took  possession  of  me  that  I  might  be 
a  clown,  introduced  as  a  character-song-maii  and  the 
composer  of  my  own  ballads. 

'My  father  was  thinking  of  something  else,  how 
ever,  and  one  day  I  found  myself  with  a  'five-ought' 
paint  brush  under  the  eaves  of  an  old  frame  house 
that  drank  paint  by  the  bucketful,  learning  to  be  a 
painter.  Finally,  I  graduated  as  a  house,  sign  and 
ornamental  painter,  and  for  two  summers  traveled 
about  with  a  small  company  of  young  fellows  calling 
ourselves  'The  Graphics/  who  covered  all  the  barns 
and  fences  in  the  state  with  advertisements." 

At  another  time  his  young  man's  fancy  saw  at 
tractive  possibilities  in  the  village  print-shop,  and 


374  JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILEY 

later  his  ambition  was  diverted  to  acting,  encouraged 
by  the  good  times  he  had  in  the  theatricals  of  the 
Adelphian  Society  of  Greenfield.  "In  my  dreamy 
way,"  he  afterward  said,  "I  did  a  little  of  a  number 
of  things  fairly  well— sang,  played  the  guitar  and 
violin,  acted,  painted  signs  and  wrote  poetry.  My 
father  did  not  encourage  my  verse-making  for  he 
thought  it  too  visionary,  and  being  a  visionary  him 
self,  he  believed  he  understood  the  dangers  of  fol 
lowing  the  promptings  of  the  poetic  temperament.  I 
doubted  if  anything  would  come  of  the  verse-writing 
myself.  At  this  time  it  is  easy  to  picture  my  father, 
a  lawyer  of  ability,  regarding  me,  nonplused,  as  the 
worst  case  he  had  ever  had.  He  wanted  me  to  do 
something  practical,  besides  being  ambitious  for  me 
to  follow  in  his  footsteps,  and  at  last  persuaded  me 
to  settle  down  and  read  law  in  his  office.  This  I 
really  tried  to  do  conscientiously,  but  finding  that 
political  economy  and  Blackstone  did  not  rhyme  and 
that  the  study  of  law  was  unbearable,  I  slipped  out 
of  the  office  one  summer  afternoon,  when  all  out 
doors  called  imperiously,  shook  the  last  dusty  prem 
ise  from  my  head  and  was  away. 

"The  immediate  instigator  of  my  flight  was  a 
traveling  medicine  man  who  appealed  to  me  for  this 
reason :  My  health  was  bad,  very  bad, — as  bad  as  I 
was.  Our  doctor  had  advised  me  to  travel,  but  how 
could  I  travel  without  money?  The  medicine  man 
needed  an  assistant  and  I  plucked  up  courage  to  ask 


JAMES   WHIT  COME  RILEY  375 

if  I  could  join  the  party  and  paint  advertisements 
for  him. 

"I  rode  out  of  town  with  that  glittering  cavalcade 
without  saying  good-by  to  any  one,  and  though  my 
patron  was  not  a  diplomaed  doctor,  as  I  found  out, 
he  was  a  man  of  excellent  habits, and  the  whole  com 
pany  was  made  up  of  good  straight  boys,  jolly 
chirping  vagabonds  like  myself.  It  was  delightful 
to  bowl  over  the  country  in  that  way.  I  laughed 
all  the  time.  Miles  and  miles  of  somber  landscape 
were  made  bright  with  merry  song,  and  when  the 
sun  shone  and  all  the  golden  summer  lay  spread  out 
before  us,  it  was  glorious  just  to  drift  on  through 
it  like  a  wisp  of  thistle-down,  careless  of  how,  or 
when,  or  where  the  wind  should  anchor  us.  'There's 
a  tang  of  gipsy  blood  in  my  veins  that  pants  for  the 
sun  and  the  air/ 

"My  duty  proper  was  the  manipulation  of  two 
blackboards,  swung  at  the  sides  of  the  wagon  during 
our  street  lecture  and  concert.  These  boards  were 
alternately  embellished  with  colored  drawings  illus 
trative  of  the  manifold  virtues  of  the  nostrum 
vended.  Sometimes  I  assisted  the  musical  olio  with 
dialect  recitations  and  character  sketches  from  the 
back  step  of  the  wagon.  These  selections  in  the 
main  originated  from  incidents  and  experiences 
along  the  route,  and  were  composed  on  dull  Sundays 
in  lonesome  little  towns  where  even  the  church  bells 
seemed  to  bark  at  us." 


376  JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILEY 

On  his  return  to  Greenfield  after  this  delightful 
but  profitless  tour  he  became  the  local  editor  of  his 
home  paper  and  in  a  few  months  "strangled  the 
little  thing  into  a  change  of  ownership."  The  new 
proprietor  transferred  him  to  the  literary  depart 
ment  and  the  latter,  not  knowing  what  else  to  put  in 
the  space  allotted  him,  filled  it  with  verse.  But 
there  was  not  room  in  his  department  for  all  he  pro 
duced,  so  he  began,  timidly,  to  offer  his  poetic  wares 
in  foreign  markets.  The  editor  of  The  Indianapolis 
Mirror  accepted  two  or  three  shorter  verses  but 
in  doing  so  suggested  that  in  the  future  he  try 
prose.  Being  but  an  humble  beginner,  Riley  hark- 
ened  to  the  advice,  whereupon  the  editor  made  a 
further  suggestion;  this  time  that  he  try  poetry 
again.  The  D anbury  (Connecticut)  News,  then  at 
the  height  of  its  humorous  reputation,  accepted  a 
contribution  shortly  after  The  Mirror  episode  and 
Mr.  McGeechy,  its  managing  editor,  wrote  the 
young  poet  a  graceful  note  of  congratulation.  Com 
menting  on  these  parlous  times,  Mr.  Riley  once 
wrote,  "It  is  strange  how  little  a  thing  sometimes 
makes  or  unmakes  a  fellow.  In  these  dark  days  I 
should  have  been  content  with  the  twinkle  of  the 
tiniest  star,  but  even  this  light  was  withheld  from 
me.  Just  then  came  the  letter  from  McGeechy ;  and 
about  the  same  time,  arrived  my  first  check,  a  pay 
ment  from  Hearth  and  Home  for  a  contribution 
called  A  Destiny  (now  A  Dreamer  in  A  Child 
World).  The  letter  was  signed,  'Editor*  and  unless 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY  377 

sent  by  an  assistant  it  must  have  come  from  Ik 
Marvel  himself,  God  bless  him!  I  thought  my 
fortune  made.  Almost  immediately  I  sent  off  an 
other  contribution,  whereupon  to  my  dismay  came 
this  reply :  'The  management  has  decided  to  discon 
tinue  the  publication  and  hopes  that  you  will  find 
a  market  for  your  worthy  work  elsewhere.'  Then 
followed  dark  days  indeed,  until  finally,  inspired  by 
my  old  teacher  and  comrade,  Captain  Lee  O.  Harris, 
I  sent  some  of  my  poems  to  Longfellow,  who  re 
plied  in  his  kind  and  gentle  manner  with  the  sub 
stantial  encouragement  for  which  I  had  long 
thirsted." 

Not  long  after  this  Mr.  Riley  formed  a  connection 
with  The  Anderson  (Indiana)  Democrat  and  con 
tributed  verse  and  locals  in  more  than  generous 
quantities.  He  was  happy  in  this  work  and  had  be 
gun  to  feel  that  at  last  he  was  making  progress 
when  evil  fortune  knocked  at  his  door  and,  con 
spiring  with  circumstances  and  a  friend  or  two,  in 
duced  the  young  poet  to  devise  what  afterward 
seemed  to  him  the  gravest  of  mistakes, — the  Poe- 
poem  hoax.  He  was  then  writing  for  an  audience 
of  county  papers  and  never  dreamed  that  this 
whimsical  bit  of  fooling  would  be  carried  beyond 
such  boundaries.  It  was  suggested  by  these  circum 
stances.  He  was  inwardly  distressed  by  the  belief 
that  his  failure  to  get  the  magazines  to  accept  his 
verse  was  due  to  his  obscurity,  while  outwardly  he 
was  harrassed  to  desperation  by  the  junior  editor  of 


378  JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY 

the  rival  paper  who  jeered  daily  at  his  poetical  pre 
tensions.  So,  to  prove  that  editors  would  praise 
from  a  known  source  what  they  did  not  hesitate  to 
condemn  from  one  unknown,  and  to  silence  his  nag 
ging  contemporary,  he  wrote  Leonainie  in  the  style 
of  Poe,  concocting  a  story,  to  accompany  the  poem, 
setting  forth  how  Poe  came  to  write  it  and  how  all 
these  years  it  had  been  lost  to  view.  In  a  few 
words  Mr.  Riley  relates  the  incident  and  then  dis 
misses  it.  "I  studied  Poe's  methods.  He  seemed 
to  have  a  theory,  rather  misty  to  be  sure,  about  the 
use  of  "m's"  and  "n's"  and  mellifluous  vowels  and 
sonorous  words.  I  remember  that  I  was  a  long  time 
in  evolving  the  name  Leonainie,  but  at  length  the 
verses  were  finished  and  ready  for  trial. 

"A  friend,  the  editor  of  The  Kokomo  Dispatch, 
undertook  the  launching  of  the  hoax  in  his  paper; 
he  did  this  with  great  editorial  gusto  while,  at  the 
same  time,  I  attacked  the  authenticity  of  the  poem 
in  The  Democrat.  That  diverted  all  possible  sus 
picion  from  me.  The  hoax  succeeded  far  too  well, 
for  what  had  started  as  a  boyish  prank  became  a 
literary  discussion  nation-wide,  and  the  necessary 
expose  had  to  be  made.  I  was  appalled  at  the  re 
sult.  The  press  assailed  me  furiously,  and  even  my 
own  paper  dismissed  me  because  I  had  given  the 
'discovery'  to  a  rival." 

Dreary  and  disheartening  days  followed  this 
tragic  event,  days  in  which  the  young  poet  found 
no  present  help,  nor  future  hope.  But  over  in  In- 


JAMES   WHIT  COMB   RILEY  379 

dianapolis,  twenty  miles  away,  happier  circum 
stances  were  shaping  themselves.  Judge  E.  B. 
Martindale,  editor  and  proprietor  of  The  Indian 
apolis  Journal,  had  been  attracted  by  certain  poems 
in  various  papers  over  the  state  and  at  the  very  time 
that  the  poet  was  ready  to  confess  himself  beaten, 
the  judge  wrote:  "Come  over  to  Indianapolis  and 
we'll  give  you  a  place  on  The  Journal"  Mr.  Riley 
went.  That  was  the  turning  point,  and  though  the 
skies  were  not  always  clear,  nor  the  way  easy,  still 
from  that  time  it  was  ever  an  ascending  journey. 
As  soon  as  he  was  comfortably  settled  in  his  new 
position,  the  first  of  the  Benj.  F.  Johnson  poems 
made  its  appearance.  These  dialect  verses  were 
introduced  with  editorial  comment  as  coming  from 
an  old  Boone  county  farmer,  and  their  reception 
was  so  cordial,  so  enthusiastic,  indeed,  that  the  busi 
ness  manager  of  The  Journal,  Mr.  George  C.  Hitt, 
privately  published  them  in  pamphlet  form  and  sold 
the  first  edition  of  one  thousand  copies  in  local 
bookstores,  and  over  The  Journal  office  counter. 
This  marked  an  epoch  in  the  young  poet's  progress 
and  was  the  beginning  of  a  friendship  between  him 
and  Mr.  Hitt  that  has  never  known  interruption. 
This  first  edition  of  The  Old  Szvimmin'  Hole  and 
'Leven  More  Poems  has  since  become  extremely 
rare  and  now  commands  a  high  premium.  A  sec 
ond  edition  was  promptly  issued  by  a  local  book 
dealer,  whose  successors,  The  Bowen-Merrill  Com 
pany — now  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company — have 


380  JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILEY 

continued,  practically  without  interruption,  to  pub 
lish  Mr.  Riley's  work. 

The  call  to  read  from  the  public  platform  had 
by  this  time  become  so  insistent  that  Mr.  Riley  could 
no  longer  resist  it,  although  modesty  and  shyness 
fought  the  battle  for  privacy.  He  tells  briefly  and 
in  his  own  inimitable  fashion  of  these  trying  experi 
ences.  "In  boyhood  I  had  been  vividly  impressed 
with  Dickens'  success  in  reading  from  his  own 
works  and  dreamed  that  some  day  I  might  follow 
his  example.  At  first  I  read  at  Sunday-school  en 
tertainments  and  later,  on  special  occasions  such  as 
Memorial  Days  and  Fourth  of  Julys.  At  last 
I  mustered  up  sufficient  courage  to  read  in  a  city 
theater,  where,  despite  the  conspiracy  of  a  rainy 
night  and  a  circus,  I  got  encouragement  enough  to 
lead  me  to  extend  my  efforts.  And  so,  my  native 
state  and  then  the  country  at  large  were  called  upon 
to  bear  with  me  and  I  think  1  visited  every  se 
questered  spot  north  or  south  particularly  dis 
tinguished  for  poor  railroad  connections.  At  dif 
ferent  times,  I  shared  the  program  with  Mark 
Twain,  Robert  J.  Burdette  and  George  Cable,  and 
for  a  while  my  gentlest  and  cheeriest  of  friends, 
Bill  Nye,  joined  with  me  and  made  the  dusty  de 
tested  travel  almost  a  delight.  We  were  constantly 
playing  practical  jokes  on  each  other  or  indulging 
in  some  mischievous  banter  before  the  audience. 
On  one  occasion,  Mr.  Nye,  coming  before  the  foot 
lights  for  a  word  of  general  introduction,  said, 


JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILEY  381 

'Ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  entertainment  to-night 
is  of  a  dual  nature.  Mr.  Riley  and  I  will  speak  al 
ternately.  First  I  come  out  and  talk  until  I  get 
tired,  then  Mr.  Riley  comes  out  and  talks  until  you 
get  tired !'  And  thus  the  trips  went  merrily  enough 
at  times  and  besides  I  learned  to  know  in  Bill  Nye 
a  man  blessed  with  as  noble  and  heroic  a  heart  as 
ever  beat.  But  the  making  of  trains,  which  were  all 
in  conspiracy  to  outwit  me,  schedule  or  no  schedule, 
and  the  rush  and  tyrannical  pressure  of  inviolable 
engagements,  some  hundred  to  a  season  and  from 
Boston  to  San  Francisco,  were  a  distress  to  my 
soul.  I  am  glad  that's  over  with.  Imagine  your 
self  on  a  crowded  day-long  excursion ;  imagine  that 
you  had  to  ride  all  the  way  on  the  platform  of  the 
car ;  then  imagine  that  you  had  to  ride  all  the  way 
back  on  the  same  platform ;  and  lastly,  try  to  imag 
ine  how  you  would  feel  if  you  did  that  every  day  of 
your  life,  and  you  will  then  get  a  glimmer — a  faint 
glimmer — of  how  one  feels  after  traveling  about  on 
a  reading  or  lecturing  tour. 

"All  this  time  I  had  been  writing  whenever  there 
was  any  strength  left  in  me.  I  could  not  resist  the 
inclination  to  write.  It  was  what  I  most  enjoyed 
doing.  And  so  I  wrote,  laboriously  ever,  more 
often  using  the  rubber  end  of  the  pencil  than  the 
point. 

"In  my  readings  I  had  an  opportunity  to  study 
and  find  out  for  myself  what  the  public  wants,  and 
afterward  I  would  endeavor  to  use  the  knowledge 


382  JAMES    WHITCOMB   RILEY 

gained  in  my  writing.  The  public  desires  nothing 
but  what  is  absolutely  natural,  and  so  perfectly  nat 
ural  as  to  be  fairly  artless.  It  can  not  tolerate  af 
fectation,  and  it  takes  little  interest  in  the  classical 
production.  It  demands  simple  sentiments  that  come 
direct  from  the  heart.  While  on  the  lecture  plat 
form  I  watched  the  effect  that  my  readings  had  on 
the  audience  very  closely  and  whenever  anybody  left 
the  hall  I  knew  that  my  recitation  was  at  fault  and 
tried  to  find  out  why.  Once  a  man  and  his  wife 
made  an  exit  while  I  was  giving  The  Happy  Little 
Cripple — a  recitation  I  had  prepared  with  par 
ticular  enthusiasm  and  satisfaction.  It  fulfilled,  as 
few  poems  do,  all  the  requirements  of  length,  climax 
and  those  many  necessary  features  for  a  recitation. 
The  subject  was  a  theme  of  real  pathos,  beautified 
by  the  cheer  and  optimism  of  the  little  sufferer. 
Consequently  when  this  couple  left  the  hall  I  was 
very  anxious  to  know  the  reason  and  asked  a  friend 
to  find  out.  He  learned  that  they  had  a  little  hunch 
back  child  of  their  own.  After  this  experience  I 
never  used  that  recitation  again.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  often  required  a  long  time  for  me  to 
realize  that  the  public  would  enjoy  a  poem  which, 
because  of  some  blind  impulse,  I  thought  unsuita 
ble.  Once  a  man  said  to  me,  'Why  don't  you  re 
cite  When  the  Frost  Is  on  the  Punkinf  The  use 
of  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  for  I  thought  it 
'wouldn't  go/  He  persuaded  me  to  try  it  and  it 
became  one  of  my  most  favored  recitations.  Thus, 
I  learned  to  judge  and  value  -my  verses  by  their 


JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY  383 

effect  upon  the  public.  Occasionally,  at  first,  I  had 
presumed  to  write  'over  the  heads'  of  the  audience, 
consoling  myself  for  the  cool  reception  by  think 
ing  my  auditors  were  not  of  sufficient  intellectual 
height  to  appreciate  my  efforts.  But  after  a  time 
it  came  home  to  me  that  I  myself  was  at  fault  in 
these  failures,  and  then  I  disliked  anything  that 
did  not  appeal  to  the  public  and  learned  to  discrim 
inate  between  that  which  did  not  ring  true  to  the 
hearts  of  my  hearers  and  that  which  won  them  by 
virtue  of  its  simple  truthfulness." 

As  a  reader  of  his  own  poems,  as  a  teller  of 
humorous  stories,  as  a  mimic,  indeed  as  a  finished 
actor,  Mr.  Riley's  gifts  are  rare  and  beyond  ques-    ' 
tion.     In  a  lecture  on  the  Humorous  Story,  Mark    / 
Twain,  referring  to  the  story  of  the  One  Legged 
Soldier  and  the  different  ways  of  telling  it,  once 
said: 

"It  takes  only  a  minute  and  a  half  to  tell  it  in  its    \ 
comic  form;  and  isn't  worth  telling  after  all.     Put    | 
into  the  humorous-story  form,  it  takes  ten  minutes, 
and  is  about  the  funniest  thing  I  have  ever  listened 
to — as  James  Whitcomb  Riley  tells  it. 

"The  simplicity  and  innocence  and  sincerity  and 
unconsciousness  of  Riley's  old  farmer  are  perfectly 
simulated,  and  the  result  is  a  performance  which  » 
is  thoroughly  charming  and  delicious.     This  is  art 
— and     fine  and  beautiful,  and  only  a  master  can  ' 
compass  it." 

It  was  in   1883  that  The  Old  Swimmin'  Hole 


384  JAMES    WHITCOMB   RILEY 

and  'Leven  More  Poems  first  appeared  in  volume 
form.  Four  years  later,  Mr.  Riley  made  his  initial 
appearance  before  a  New  York  City  audience.  The 
entertainment  was  given  in  aid  of  an  international 
copyright  law,  and  the  country's  most  distinguished 
men  of  letters  took  part  in  the  program.  It  is  prob 
ably  true  that  no  one  appearing  at  that  time  was  less 
known  to  the  vast  audience  in  Chickering  Hall  than 
James  Whitcomb  Riley,  but  so  great  and  so  spon 
taneous  was  the  enthusiasm  when  he  left  the  stage 
after  his  contribution  to  the  first  day's  program,  that 
the  management  immediately  announced  a  place 
would  be  made  for  Mr.  Riley  on  the  second  and  last 
day's  program.  It  was  then  that  James  Russell 
Lowell  introduced  him  in  the  following  words : 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen :  I  have  very  great  pleas 
ure  in  presenting  to  you  the  next  reader  of  this 
afternoon,  Mr.  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  of  Indiana. 
I  confess,  with  no  little  chagrin  and  sense  of  my 
own  loss,  that  when  yesterday  afternoon,  from  this 
platform,  I  presented  him  to  a  similar  assemblage, 
I  was  almost  completely  a  stranger  to  his  poems. 
But  since  that  time  I  have  been  looking  into  the 
volumes  that  have  come  from  his  pen,  and  in  them 
I  have  discovered  so  much  of  high  worth  and  ten 
der  quality  that  I  deeply  regret  I  had  not  long  be 
fore  made  acquaintance  with  his  work.  To-day,  in 
presenting  Mr.  Riley  to  you,  I  can  say  to  you  of 
my  own  knowledge,  that  you  are  to  have  the  pleas 
ure  of  listening  to  the  voice  of  a  true  poet." 


JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILEY  385 

Two  years  later  a  selection  from  his  poems  was 
published  in  England  under  the  title  Old  Fashioned 
Roses  and  his  international  reputation  was  estab 
lished.  In  his  own  country  the  people  had  already 
conferred  their  highest  degrees  on  him  and  now  the 
colleges  and  universities — seats  of  conservatism — 
gave  him  scholastic  recognition.  Yale  made  him  an 
Honorary  Master  of  Arts  in  1902 ;  in  1903,  Wabash 
and,  a  year  later,  the  University  of  Pennsylvania 
conferred  on  him  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Letters, 
and  in  1907  Indiana  University  gave  him  his  LL.  D. 
Still  more  recently  the  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 
elected  him  to  membership,  and  in  1912  awarded 
him  the  gold  medal  for  poetry.  About  this  time  a 
yet  dearer,  more  touching  tribute  came  to  him  from 
school  children.  On  October  7,  1911,  the  schools  of 
Indiana  and  New  York  City  celebrated  his  birthday 
by  special  exercises,  and  one  year  later,  the  school 
children  of  practically  every  section  of  the  country 
had  programs  in  his  honor. 

As  these  distinguished  honors  came  they  found 
him  each  time  surprised  anew  and,  though  proud 
that  they  who  dwell  in  the  high  places  of  learning 
should  come  in  cap  and  gown  to  welcome  him,  yet 
gently  and  sincerely  protesting  his  own  unworthi- 
ness.  And  as  they  found  him  when  they  came  so 
have  they  left  him. 

Mr.  Riley  has  lived  in  Indianapolis  ever  since 
Judge  Martindale  invited  him  to  join  The  Journal's 
forces,  and  no  one  of  her  citizens  is  more  devoted, 


386  JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY 

while  none  is  so  universally  loved  and  honored. 
Everywhere  he  goes  the  tribute  of  quick  recognition 
and  cheery  greeting  is  paid  him,  and  his  home  is  the 
shrine  of  every  visiting  Hoosier.  High  on  a  sward 
of  velvet  grass  stands  a  dignified  middle-aged  brick 
house.  A  dwarfed  stone  wall,  broken  by  an  iron 
gate,  guards  the  front  lawn,  while  in  the  rear  an 
old-fashioned  garden  revels  in  hollyhocks  and  wild 
roses.  Here  among  his  books  and  his  souvenirs 
the  poet  spends  his  happy  and  contented  days.  To 
reach  this  restful  spot,  the  pilgrim  must  journey  to 
Lockerbie  Street,  a  miniature  thoroughfare  half 
hidden  between  two  more  commanding  avenues.  It 
is  little  more  than  a  lane,  shaded,  unpaved  and  from 
end  to  end  no  longer  than  a  five  minutes'  walk,  but 
its  fame  is  for  all  time. 

"Such  a  dear  little  street  it  is,  nestled  away 
From  the  noise  of  the  city  and  heat  of  the  day, 
In  cool  shady  coverts  of  whispering  trees, 
With  their  leaves  lifted  up  to  shake  hands  with  the 

breeze 

Which  in  all  its  wide  wanderings  never  may  meet 
With  a  resting-place  fairer  than  Lockerbie  Street !" 

Mr.  Riley  has  never  married.  He  lives  with  de 
voted,  loyal  and  understanding  friends,  a  part  of 
whose  life  he  became  many  years  ago.  Kindly  con 
sideration,  gentle  affection,  peace  and  order, — all 
that  go  to  make  home  home,  are  found  here  bloom 
ing  with  the  hollyhocks  and  the  wild  roses.  Every 


JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILEY  387 

day  some  visitor  knocks  for  admittance  and  is  not 
denied ;  every  day  sees  the  poet  calling  for  some 
companionable  friend  and  driving  with  him  through 
the  city's  shaded  streets  or  far  out  into  the  sur 
rounding  country.  While  he  writes  but  little  still 
his  days  are  full  of  activities  and  his  life  is  ever 
rounded  with  a  song — 

"For  no  language  could  frame  and  no  lips  could  re 
peat 
My  rhyme-haunted  raptures  of  Lockerbie  Street." 


NOTES 


I 


•  4  t*i.  -  «i  ^  &*.»-     k  -  V"* 4^- 


5^ 


NOTES 

The  earliest  of  Mr.  Riley's  poems  are  found  in  a 
small  time-stained  note-book  where  the  penman 
ship  contrasts  sharply  with  the  artistic  neatness  of 
his  writing  of  later  years.  The  book  contains  twen 
ty-four  poems,  each  one  bearing  its  date  of  composi 
tion,  and  includes  verses  that  he  wrote  when  a  mere 
boy.  The  following  appear  in  the  body  of  this 
volume:  A  Backward  Look,  Philiper  Flash  (hith 
erto  unpublished),  To  a  Boy  Whistling  (not 
hitherto  printed) .,  An  Old  Friend,  A  Poet's  Wooing, 
A  Ballad. 

P- 1  A  BACKWARD  LOOK 

In  the  early  note-book  with  the  title,  A  Retro 
spect,  and  the  date  August  7,  1870;  shortly  after 
ward  printed  in  The  Greenfield  Commercial  (exact 
date  lost),  and  signed  "Edyrn"  ;  published  in  a  prose 
sketch  entitled  The  Gilded  Roll  in  PIPES  o'  PAN  AT 
ZEKESBURY— 1888.  The  poem  was  revised  prior 
to  each  publication.  The  fourth  stanza  originally 
ended  with  these  four  lines : 

They  got  me  to  climb  for  the  bluebird's  nest 
By  telling  me  they'd  give  me  half  the  eggs, 

And  I  got  to  the  limb  by  tuggin'  my  best 
And  fell  to  the  ground  and  broke  one  of  my  legs, 
391 


392  NOTES 

The  following  stanza  originally  stood  at  the  con 
clusion  of  the  poem  but  has  subsequently  been  dis 
carded  : 

Through  the  great  thoroughfare  of  the  phantom  past 

Went  garnering  here  and  there 
These  brittle  baubles,  too  frail  to  last, 
And   which   flying   Time   with   its  blighting  blast 

Is  hurrying — God  knows  where! 
And  Memory  brought  them  all  back  again, 

Slipped  again  in  my  mind,  and  leant  down 
And  knocked  the  cigar  stump  out  of  my  hand. 

So  I  got  up  and  walked  back  to  town. 

The  references  in  this  poem  are  true  to  the  au 
thor's  own  life.  In  it  are  mentioned  two  of  his 
boyhood  companions, — George  Carr,  later  mayor 
of  Greenfield,  and  Alexander  Skinner,  always  called 
"Eck"  because  as  a  child  he  pronounced  his  nick 
name,  "Alec,"  in  this  manner. 

St.  4,  1.  5 :  "Doin'  sky-scrapers" :  a  child's  term 
for  swinging  very  high;  "whirlin'  round":  the  re 
sult  obtained  by  revolving  the  swing  and  then  al 
lowing  it  to  unwind  of  its  own  accord. 

The  nom  de  plume  "Edyrn,"  by  which  this  poem 
and  others  wrere  signed  when  first  printed,  is  the 
name  of  a  knight  in  Geraint  and  Enid  in  Tenny 
son's  Idyls  of  the  King.  Mr.  Riley  fancied  the 
name  on  account  of  its  strangeness. 


p.  4  PHILIPER  FLASH 

In  the  early  note-book  with  the  date  August 
14,  1870;  printed  in  The  Greenfield  Commercial, 
September  8,  1870,  signed  "Edyrn"  and  dated  Au 
gust  29,  1870;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form. 
These  lines  were  written  under  the  inspiration  of 


NOTES  393 

John  G.  Saxe,  whose  happy  knack  of  artless  rhym 
ing  Mr.  Riley  greatly  admired,  as 

Young  Peter  Pyramus, — I  call  him  Peter, 
Not  for  the  sake  of  the  rhyme  or  the  meter, 
But  merely  to  make  the  name  completer. 

In  accord  with  a  once  popular  custom,  a  man's 
character  was  often  symbolized  by  his  name,  as  in 
this  poem.  Mr.  Riley  rejoices  that  such  an  irritat 
ing  artificiality  is  no  longer  in  fashion. 

p.  8  THE  SAME  OLD  STORY 

Printed  in  The  Greenfield  Commercial,  Septem 
ber  7,  1870,  over  the  pen-name  of  "Edyrn"  ;  hitherto 
unpublished  in  book  form.  This  is  doubtless  the 
first  of  his  verse  that  found  its  way  into  print. 
Lionel  E.  Rumrill  accepted  the  contribution  for  the 
Poet's  Column  of  his  paper,  and  its  appearance  was 
a  source  of  great  satisfaction  to  Mr.  Riley.  Com 
menting  upon  its  publication  he  says  "I  read  it  over 
and  over  again  until  the  verses  sounded  strange  to 
me  despite  the  fact  that  there  is  involved  a  perfect 
wrangle  of  bad  grammar." 

Mr.  Riley  has  allowed  these  early  poems  to  stand 
with  their  youthful  imperfections. 

p.  10  TO  A  BOY  WHISTLING 

In  the  early  note-book  with  the  date  September 
14-23,  1870 ;  not  hitherto  printed. 

p.  11  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

In  the  early  note-book  with  the  title,  Summer's 
Return,  dated  March  22,  1871 ;  later  printed  in  The 


394  NOTES 

Greenfield  Commercial  (exact  date  lost),  signed 
"Edyrn";  published  in  HOME  FOLKS  (Homestead 
Edition) — 1902,  His  PA'S  ROMANCE  (Greenfield 
Edition) — 1903,  SONGS  OF  SUMMER — 1908,  A  SUM 
MER'S  DAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS — 1911,  THE  LOCK 
ERBIE  BOOK — 1911. 

p.  12      WHAT  SMITH  KNEW  ABOUT  FARMING 

Dated  April  15,  1871 ;  not  hitherto  printed.  Mr. 
Riley  has  made  a  deliberate  use  of  both  "o'  "  and 
"of"  in  this  and  other  dialect  poems.  In  this  de 
tail  as  in  all  others  he  has  carefully  followed  the 
dictates  of  spoken  dialect  as  he  has  heard  it.  Vari 
ous  considerations  control  the  pronunciation  of  the 
preposition  "of,"  among  which  are,  the  rapidity 
with  which  it  is  spoken,  the  familiarity  of  the  phrase 
in  which  it  occurs,  and  the  stress  given  it. 

p.  18  A  POET'S  WOOING 

As  indicated  by  a  fragment  of  the  first  five  lines 
in  the  early  note-book,  these  verses  were  begun 
prior  to  July  20,  1870,  and  were  completed  be 
fore  February  9,  1872,  at  which  time  they  were 
enclosed  in  a  letter  to  the  author's  brother,  John  A. 
Riley,  and  entitled  The  Bard  and  the  Modern  Miss; 
first  printed  in  The  D anbury  News  (Conn.),  Au 
gust  8,  1874;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form. 
The  letter,  full  of  youth's  enthusiasm,  containing 
this  poem  and  the  next,  Man's  Devotion,  follows : 

Feb.  9th,  1872. 
My  dear  Bro. 

That  little  letter  of  yours  came  .  .  .  and  I  reply  with 
like  brevity — Come  to  think,  I  don't  believe  you  asked  a 
r^ply,  but  a  comply — for  your  letter  only  requested  me  to 
send  "that  literary  effort,"  so  of  course  you'll  consider  you 


NOTES  395 

are  answered  when  you  take  its  fragile  support  carefully — 
tenderly  I  may  say — from  its  Sarcophagus — (its  envelope, 
you  know,  but  I  am  used  to  soaring — )  .  .  .  You  will 
find  I  have  sent  you  two  ''Literary  efforts — "  though  the 
newer  may  hardly  be  termed  an  effort  for  /  done  it  with 
the  greatest  of  ease  and  avidity  as  "Young  P — "  would  say. 
Of  late  I  am  startlingly  prolific  in  composing,  and,  as  you 
hinted  "Who  knows,  &c,  &c."  I  could  dispose  of  them  like 
brick — so  much  per  thousand.  I  think  "The  Bard  and  the 
Modern  Miss"  contains  pretty  deep  satire — wade  in  and 
see. — 

And  say,  Dear  bro.  you  will  sign  Jay  Whit, 

Providing  the  papers  will  publish  it. 

And  if  they  should  refuse,  let  me  down  gently!  I  have 
written  with  a  pencil  to  make  it  as  plain  as  possible  to 
you — don't  let  them  see  my  manuscript — unless  you  sho'd 
endeavor  to  publish  it  in  an  illustrated  paper — you  may 
then  submit  my  illustration  to  them — 

Yours  obscurely, 

Jim. 

It  was  the  practise  of  the  author's  brother  to  re 
write  the  verses  in  his  own  neat  hand,  because  they 
were  not  very  legibly  or  accurately  spelled.  Later, 
Mr.  Riley,  in  an  effort  to  furnish  copy  that  no 
printer  could  mistake,  and  especially  to  insure  the 
perfect  reproduction  of  his  dialect,  developed  a 
handwriting  which  resembles  lettering  and  pos 
sesses  an  artistic  neatness. 

The  quotation  from  Tennyson  at  the  head  of  the 
poem  is  from  Aitdley  Court,  51,  52. 

p.  20  MAN'S  DEVOTION 

Enclosed  in  a  letter  to  John  A.  Riley,  Febru 
ary  9,  1872;  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Mirror 
March  31,  1872,  signed  "Jay  Whit";  hitherto  un 
published  in  book  form.  The  original  MS.  of  these 
verses,  contained  in  the  letter  printed  in  the  pre 
vious  note,  was  humorously  illustrated  by  the  au 
thor.  See  facsimile  at  beginning  of  the  Notes.  He 


396  NOTES 


wrote  to  his  brother  as  follows  when  the  latter, 
after  almost  two  months  of  persistence,  finally  got 
the  contribution  accepted  : 


Dear  Bro.  SatUrday>   [Apf'  6'] 

You're  a  good  fellow!—  I  tell  you  I  was  very  agreeably 
surprised  when  I  saw  myself  in  The  Mirror  the  other 
morning—  I  mean  at  that  startling  proof  of  "Man's  Devo 
tion"  (A  Complimentary  pun  this  is  meant  for.)  "When 
at  first  you  don't  succeed  you  try,  try  again"—  now,  had  / 
been  declined—  I  should  have  most  certainly  "wilted," 
bereft  of  power  to  even  demand  the  return  of  MS.—  I 
don't  know  that  I  would  now,  for  I  think  I  have  learned 
a  lesson—  hope  so  at  least!  I,  of  course,  was  sorry  that 
there  were  so  many  errors,  but  I  console  myself  that  they 
are  magnified  thro'  my  tears  —  "but  pshaw!  I  am  grow 
ing  womanish  !—  I'll  none  of  it!" 

P.  23  A  BALLAD 

As  indicated  by  a  fragment  of  eight  stanzas  in 
the  early  note-book,  these  verses  were  begun  be 
tween  August  14  and  17,  1870;  printed  in  The 
Indianapolis  Mirror,  May  n,  1872,  signed  "Jay 
Whit";  published  in  HOME  FOLKS  —  1900.  These 
verses  were  revised  considerably  before  each  publi 
cation.  Prior  to  their  first  appearance  in  print,  the 
writer  sent  them,  with  the  following  comment,  to 
his  brother  John  who  was  to  submit  them  to  the 
editor  of  The  Indianapolis  Mirror: 

Home,  Tuesday  eve.  [May  7,  1872.] 
Dear  Bro: 

I  have  written  this  poem  hastily  —  for  I  am  so  busy  —  but 
I  guess  you  can  read  it—  I  will  try  and  write  the  next  in 
ink—  and  you  may  try  the  experiment  whether  printers 
will  receive  such  obscure  H-le-o-griphicks  —  (I  don  t  know 
how  to  spell  it). 

If  you  can't  get  this  on  the  front  page—  don't  put  it  in— 
for  /  consider  it  the  best  thing  I  have  ever  written  and  I 


NOTES  397 

want  to  see  it  occupy  a  front  seat, — or  we'll  let  it  stand  till 
one  can  be  procured.  It  looks  rather  voluminous  but 
it's  only  eight  verses  longer  than  the  last — It  will  be  the 
more  apt — on  that  score — (20)  with  two  verses  for  good 
measure!  to  fill  the  measure  of  the  public  eye — 

I'd  like  you  to  try  it  for  this  week — And  feel  'em  a 
little  on  a  prose  sketch — for  instance — "He  has  written 
some  sketches  that  /  consider  good — not  tiresome  &c  &c — 
but  racy — original — with  now  and  then  a  little  spice  of 
poetry — humor — wit — and  quite  "pathetic"  occasionally — 
etc  &c." — understand?  Try  it — and  send  me  the  result 
in  the  inside  pocket  of  my  old  new  coat  and  I'll  be  yours 
muchly.  Jim. 

P.  S. — Use  your  best  endeavors  to  send  it  this  week,  and, 
if  published — the  poem — I  expect  there  will  be  some  one 
from  Greenfield  who  would  like  to  hand  his  name  down 
to  posterity  by  having  it  said  that  he  once  bro't  me  from 
the  Renovator's — a  second-hand  coat — when  I  was  too 
poor  to  even  thank  him  for  his  trouble!  (Exit  laughing.) 

Jim. 

In  a  letter  to  his  brother,  dated  Greenfield,  May 
14,  1872,  Mr.  Riley  referred  to  the  "very  unsatis 
factory"  printing  of  the  ballad,  which  both  his 
brother  and  the  printer  had  altered  : 

.  .  .  I  believe  you  have  been  a  little  hasty  in  condemn 
ing  "somersault"  I  quote  Webster's  unabridged: — 

"So'm'er-sault. 
Som'er-set." 

He  gives  his  preference,  you  see,  to  the  above,  tho'  either 
is  correct.  That  verse  is  weak,  and  I  expect  it  makes  me 
"sicker"  than  you,  but  no  matter — "you  can't  make  a  silk 
purse  of  a  pig's  ear" —  I  do  not  expect  "to  beat  a  path 
way  on  to  wealth  and  fame,"  but  let  the  explanation  in 
next  week's  Mirror  be  given  as  you  spoke  of.  I  will  en 
close  the  poem  corrected  as  I  would  have  it — there  is  a 
ponderous  array  of  errors  (typographical,  I  believe}. 
The  repetition  of  and  I  was  aware  of  but  I  had  thought 
it  of  no  consequence. 

John,  all  the  little  articles,  pronouns,  etc.,  that  have 
become  changed,  were  chief  characteristics  of  ballad 
style:  I  refer  you  to  any  ballad  of  Longfellow's,  or  any 


398  NOTES 

good  poet's — It  makes  it  simple,  plain  and  natural,  and  I 
wouldn't  have  had  it  changed  for  anything,  in  that  par 
ticular,  excepting  those  ands — you  were  right  there — I  do 
not  know  whether  you  or  the  printer  changed  the  other 
— I  regret  that  more  than  anything  else.  It  hurts  me  more 
that  the  poem  was  my  favorite,  and  I  had  "built  an  airy 
castle  for  it!"  Well!  enough!  .  .  . 

p.  27        THE  OLD  TIMES  WERE  THE  BEST 

Composed  about  June,  1872;  first  printed  in  The 
High  School  Budget,  Greenfield,  June,  1899;  hith 
erto  unpublished  in  book  form.  These  verses  were 
written  at  Greenfield  one  evening  during  the  course 
of  a  pleasant  gathering  of  youthful  friends.  Mr. 
Riley  absented  himself  from  the  party  and  returned 
with  these  lines,  which  he  gave  to  Miss  Angy  Wil 
liams  (Mrs.  Charles  Downing)  proposing  that  she 
set  them  to  music.  Later  Mr.  Barclay  Walker,  of 
Indianapolis,  followed  the  author's  suggestion. 

p.  28  A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON 

Written  previous  to  March,  1873 ;  first  printed  in 
The  Danbury  News,  July  n,  1874;  signed  "Jay 
Whit" ;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form.  This 
poem  was  originally  called  The  Argonaut.  Dr. 
Silas  B.  McManus  relates  the  following  incident 
concerning  it: 

In  the  spring  of  1873,  when  I  was  reading  medicine 
in  Warsaw,  Riley  was  in  town  rilling  an  engagement 
painting  window  signs.  He  was  handy  at  this  sort  of 
thing  and  did  some  nice  jobs.  About  this  time  The  War 
saw  Indianian  printed  some  little  things  of  mine,  out  of 
charity,  I  suppose,  or  to  encourage  me  or  get  rid  of  me. 
One  day  Riley  and  I  were  talking  about  them  while  he 
was  painting  a  sign  of  a  jewelry  store.  In  a  mild  friend 
ly  way  he  was  a  trifle  envious  of  my  success  in  getting 
into  print,  and  I  posed  beside  him  as  a  person  whose 
literary  standing  was  assured. 


NOTES  399 

When  he  had  made  a  marine  blue  period  he  took  off  his 
apron  and  we  went  over  to  the  hotel  together  to  see  a 
little  bit  of  rhyme  which  he  said  he  had  there.  He  wanted 
my  opinion  and  criticism  on  it,  and  as  I  had  more  opin 
ion  and  criticism  to  give  than  anything  else,  I  was  will 
ing  to  bestow  it  even  on  a  sign  painter.  Riley  read  the 
poem.  It  was  called  The  Argonaut,  and,  inexperienced 
as  I  was,  I  knew  that  only  a  poet  and  a  genius  could  have 
written  it.  I  was  unstinted  in  my  praise,  and  I  knew  the 
Hoosier  poet  was  born  and  was  only  waiting  the  recog 
nition  of  the  public  which  in  a  few  years  it  so  mag 
nificently  gave.  After  this  episode  we  became  warm 
friends,  and  an  abiding  and  deep-rooted  friendship  was  the 
result.  I  have  read  about  all  he  has  ever  written,  but 
nothing  ever  pleased  me  as  much,  no  "reading"  that  I 
have  ever  heard  of  his,  pleased  me  as  well  as  that  little 
poem,  The  Argonaut,  read  one  raw  spring  day,  up  in  a 
cold  room,  by  a  curtainless  window,  in  the  Wright  House. 


p.  30  AT  LAST 

Printed  in  The  Danbury  News,  February  25, 
1874,  signed  "Jay  Whit";  hitherto  unpublished  in 
book  form. 


p.  32          FARMER  WHIFFLE— BACHELOR 

First  printed  in  The  Greenfield  News,  Feb 
ruary  28,  1874;  published  in  GREEN  FIELDS  AND 
RUNNING  BROOKS — 1892,  LOVE  LYRICS — 1899, 
Christy  edition  with  the  title,  THE  GIRL  I  LOVED 
— 1910.  This  narrative  poem  originally  was  written 
for  recitation  with  no  thought  of  publication.  The 
expression  found  in  the  last  line,  "a  pair  o'  license," 
though  unfamiliar  to-day,  was  once,  as  Mr.  Riley 
testifies,  a  phrase  heard  not  infrequently  in  Hoosier 
dialect.  The  special  edition  of  these  verses,  pub 
lished  in  1910,  with  the  title,  THE  GIRL  I  LOVED, 
was  dedicated  to  the  author's  friend,  Mr.  John  J. 
Curtis. 


400  NOTES 

AT  NOEY'S  HOUSE 

This  was  the  next  poem  to  appear  in  print, — 
printed  in  part  by  The  D anbury  News  (Conn.)* 
April  8,  1874,  with  the  title,  That  Little  Dorg.  It 
is  included  in  A  Child  World  in  a  later  volume. 

p.  40  MY  JOLLY  FRIEND'S  SECRET 

First  printed  in  The  Danbury  News,  May  23, 
1874;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form. 

p.  43      THE  SPEEDING  OF  THE  KING'S  SPITE 

First  printed  in  The  Danbury  News,  July  18, 
1874,  with  the  title,  An  Oriental  Idyl;  published 
in  THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF  THE  NIGHT — 1900,  THE 
LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911.  Originally  the  title  was 
followed  by  this  quotation  from  Othello  (Act  i,  Sc. 
3,  1.  1 60),  "  'Twas  strange,  'twas  passing  strange." 
The  poem  has  been  thoroughly  revised  since  its 
first  publication,  and  stanzas  9  and  10  have  been 
added.  The  following  stanza,  inserted  when  the 
poem  was  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Journal, 
December  26,  1877,  was  later  omitted  from  the 
text: 

One  bro't  a  bubble  of  molten  pearls 

Atwirl  of  the  gleaming  wands 
Of  a  group  of  fairy  dancing  girls 

With  moonbeams  in  their  hands; 
And  ever  their  eyes  were  upward  flung, 

And    ever   their   laughing  lips 
Tangled  the  tune  of  the  song  they  sung 

As  they  kissed  their  finger-tips. 

p.  49  JOB  WORK 

First  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  People,  July 
19,  1874 ;  signed  "Jay  Whit" ;  hitherto  unpublished 
in  book  form. 


NOTES  401 

p.  51  PRIVATE  THEATRICALS 

First  printed  in  The  Danbury  News,  August  15, 
1874,  signed  "Jay  Whit" ;  hitherto  unpublished  in 
book  form. 

p.  53  PLAIN  SERMONS 

First  printed  in  The  Danbury  News,  August  22, 
1874;  signed  "Jay  Whit";  hitherto  unpublished  in 
book  form. 

THE  BEAR  STORY 

This  skit,  which  was  recited  by  Mr.  Riley  at  a 
social  evening  "for  the  little  folks"  in  Roberts  Park 
M.  E.  Church,  Indianapolis,  October  I,  1874,  is  in 
cluded  in  A  Child  World  in  a  later  volume. 

p.  54  "TRADIN'  JOE" 

First  printed  in  The  Greenfield  News,  Decem 
ber  2,  1874;  published  in  POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME — 
1893.  In  The  Greenfield  News  the  following  dedica 
tion  was  printed  beneath  the  title:  "To  Will  S. 
Otwell  in  token  of  genial  friendship  and  mellow  re 
membrances  this  is  respectfully  inscribed  by  the  au 
thor."  About  this  time  Mr.  Otwell  and  Mr.  Riley 
were  taking  part  together  in  small  public  entertain 
ments.  The  poem  was  prepared  for  a  recitation 
with  no  thought  of  later  publication,  and  it  was 
constructed  to  read  as  much  like  prose  as  possible. 
Since  its  first  appearance  many  minor  changes  have 
been  made. 

In  introducing  this  poem  in  his  early  lectures  Mr. 
Riley  said : 

However  dialectic  expression  may  have  been  abused,  cer- 


402  NOTES 

tain  it  is  that  in  no  expression  is  there  better  opportunity 
for  the  reproduction  of  pure  nature.  In  artlessness  of 
construction  the  dialectic  poem  may  attain  even  higher  ex 
cellence  than  the  more  polished  specimens  of  English.  Its 
great  defect  seems  to  be  that  as  written  or  printed,  the 
real  feeling  it  contains  is  overlooked  by  the  reader  in  the 
contemplation  of  its  oddity  That  it  is  more  widely  copied 
by  the  press  than  any  other  type  of  versification,  I  am  in 
clined  to  think,  is  the  result  of  a  superficial  regard  for  its 
general  abandon  rather  than  a  wholesome  recognition  of 
its  real  worth,  which,  though  always  more  than  half  buried 
in  the  debris  of  rhetoric,  is  the  more  precious  when  un 
earthed.  Hence  it  is  that  we  are  so  tardy  in  admitting  it 
has  any  worth  whatever,  much  less  its  very  superior  worth 
of  character  and  truthfulness  to  life. 

And  now,  before  leaving  a  theme  which,  to  myself  at 
least,  has  for  years  been  a  source  of  infinite  interest  and 
delight,  I  will  ask  you  to  bear  with  the  narration  of  a  story 
from  real  life,  in  which  I  will  depart  from  the  original 
form  of  the  narration  only  as  the  rhythmical  requirements 
demand. 

p.  59  DOT  LEETLE  BOY 

Read  at  the  Christmas  entertainment  of  the  Third 
Presbyterian  Church,  Indianapolis,  December  24, 
1874;  first  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  People, 
with  the  title,  Karl  Schronzs'  Christmas  Story, 
January  I,  1876,  signed  "JaY  Whit";  published  in 
GREEN  FIELDS  AND  RUNNING  BROOKS — 1892.  This 
poem  was  one  of  Mr.  Riley's  earliest  recitations 
and  from  the  first  one  of  his  most  popular  num 
bers. 

p.  64  I  SMOKE  MY  PIPE 

First  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Saturday  Her 
ald,  January  24,  1875,  signed  "JaY  Whit"  ;  published 
in  His  PA'S  ROMANCE  (Homestead  Edition) — 1908, 
THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911. 


NOTES  403 

THE  DREAMER 

This  was  the  next  poem  to  appear  in  print,  pub 
lished  in  Hearth  and  Home,  April  10,  1875.  It  is 
included  in  A  Child  World  in  a  later  volume. 

p.  66  RED  RIDING  HOOD 

First  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Saturday  Her 
ald,  June  26,  1875,  signed  "Jay  Whit" ;  published  in 
HOME  FOLKS — 1900,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911. 

p.  67         IF  I  KNEW  WHAT  POETS  KNOW 

Composed  about  August,  1875 ;  printed  in  The 
Indianapolis  Journal,  October  2,  1877 ;  published  in 
AFTERWHILES — 1887,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911. 
This  is  one  of  the  very  few  poems  which  Mr.  Riley 
composed  rapidly.  Ordinarily  he  worked  late  into 
the  night  and  was  satisfied  if  he  finished  a  couple 
of  lines  that  rang  true.  Often  he  continued  the 
work  enthusiastically,  and  wrote,  and  interlined, 
and  erased,  and  rewrote,  until  at  length  perhaps  a 
third  or  fourth  satisfactory  line  was  added,  where 
upon  he  became  dimly  conscious  that  the  light  of 
the  morning  sun  was  slanting  through  his  window. 
If  I  Knew  What  Poets  Know  was  not  composed 
in  the  usual  manner.  "One  forenoon  when  I  was 
studying  law  in  my  father's  office,"  says  Mr.  Riley, 
"I  commenced  writing  this  poem,  but  had  great 
difficulty  in  getting  it  under  way.  While  thrum 
ming  abstractedly  with  my  pencil,  the  condition  of 
my  shoes  attracted  my  attention,  and  I  decided 
to  go  immediately  and  get  them  half-soled.  So 
I  got  up,  went  to  the  door  and  down  the  stairway 
into  the  street,  making  directly  for  the  shoemaker's 
across  the  way.  I  remember  that  the  street  was 
muddy,  and  how  my  feet  sank  into  the  yielding 


404  NOTES 

earth.  When  I  reached  the  middle  of  the  road, 
I  stopped,  turned  about,  retraced  my  steps  to  the 
office,  sat  down  and  then  and  there  wrote  the  poem 
rapidly  to  its  conclusion.  Of  course,  I  did  have 
to  labor  at  it.  It  didn't  just  make  itself,  and  yet  in  a 
very  short  time  it  was  finished — and  I  got  the 
shoes  fixed  in  the  afternoon." 

p.  68         AN  OLD  SWEETHEART  OF  MINE 

Composed  about  August,  1875 ;  printed  in  The 
Indianapolis  Journal,  March  12,  1877;  published  in 
PIPES  o'  PAN — 1888,  AN  OLD  SWEETHEART  (litho 
graphic  edition) — 1891,  LOVE  LYRICS — 1899,  AN 
OLD  SWEETHEART  OF  MINE  (Christy  edition) — 
1902,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911.  The  special 
edition  has  the  following  dedication : 

To  GEORGE  C.  HITT 

The  beginning  of  whose  steadfast  friendship  was  marked 
by  the  first  publication  of  these  verses  which  now,  ex 
panded  by  writer,  honored  by  publisher  and  masterfully 
graced  by  artist,  seem  to  be  a  worthier  symbol  of  the 
author's  grateful  and  affectionate  regard  for  his  earliest 
friend. 

The  phrase  "expanded  by  writer"  refers  to  the 
fact  that  for  the  special  edition  Mr.  Riley  wrote 
seven  new  stanzas,  numbers  I,  2,  3,  9,  10,  13  and  14. 

St.  3,  1.  3 ;  the  "churchwarden-stem"  is  a  long 
white  clay  pipe,  a  tobacco  fancier's  delight. 

This  poem  was  written  when  Mr.  Riley  was  sup 
posedly  reading  law  in  the  office  of  his  father,  who 
was  ambitious  that  his  son  should  follow  the  same 
profession.  During  Captain  Riley's  absence  in 
court  or  elsewhere,  while  he  thought  the  boy  was 
studying  law,  the  latter  would  open  the  desk  drawer, 


NOTES  405 

take  out  the  unfinished  manuscript  and  work  over 
it.  He  did  not  realize  then  that  in  An  Old  Sweet 
heart  of  Mine  he  had  found  a  theme  destined  to 
make  an  almost  universal  appeal.  That  these  verses 
were  the  result  of  the  author's  fancy  and  that  he 
had  no  particular  person  or  instance  in  mind  is  the 
answer  Mr.  Riley  makes  to  a  question  very  fre 
quently  asked.  Another  interrogation  often  made, 
whether  he  has  ever  married,  is  answered  in  the 
negative.  Again,  and  strange  to  say,  the  identity  of 
the  wife  with  the  sweetheart  is  sometimes  doubted, 
as  in  the  case  of  a  man  who  wrote  that  he  and  sev 
eral  friends  were  of  opinion  that  the  wife  and 
sweetheart  were  separate  characters,  whereas  their 
wives  believed  them  to  be  the  same,  and  accused 
the  men  of  "having  no  sentiment."  On  the  lower 
margin  of  this  letter  Mr.  Riley  wrote  in  reply: 

Dear  Mister  McGrew, 
I  am  sorry  for  you 

Whilst  I'm  testifyin*  agin  you, — 
But  the  "wife"  is  wan  part 
Wid  the  "Owld  Sweetheart"— 

An'  ye  have  no  sintiment  in  you! 
Yours  for  the  love  o'  love — an'  glory  be! 

Jamesy  O'Riley. 
Indianapolis,  Ind. 
Aug.  13— an'  bad  luck  to  ye!— 1903. 

p.  73  SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 

Composed  about  August,  1875 ;  printed  in  The 
Indianapolis  Saturday  Herald,  February  9,  1878; 
published  in  POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME — 1893,  special 
edition  entitled  A  HOOSIER  ROMANCE — 1910.  When 
Mr.  Riley  was  studying  law  in  his  father's  office, 
this  poem  was  composed  with  the  advice  and  consul 
tation  of  his  comrade,  Jesse  C.  Millikan,  to  whom 


406  NOTES 

the  special  edition  was  dedicated.  It  was  prepared 
originally  for  a  recitation.  When  he  first  read  the 
verses  in  public,  Mr.  Riley  did  not  claim  them  as 
his  own  but  left  it  to  be  inferred  that  they  were 
the  work  of  another,  since  he  thought  the  obscurity 
of  his  name  would  discredit  them.  On  the  title- 
page  of  the  special  edition  of  the  poem  the  date 
"1868"  follows  the  title,  indicating  that  the  story 
has  its  setting  in  the  days  immediately  following 
the  War.  The  country  squire,  at  that  period,  was  a 
character  of  kindly  patriarchal  influence  in  the 
community,  rendering  justice  according  to  sound 
sense  and  often  with  a  spice  of  humor.  Mr.  Riley 
knew  several  at  Greenfield,  such  as  Squire  Joseph 
Wright,  whom  he  says  influenced  him  in  develop 
ing  the  character  of  Squire  Hawkins. 

p.  85  A  COUNTRY  PATHWAY 

Sent  to  Benj.  S.  Parker  August  31,  1875 ;  printed 
in  The  Indianapolis  Journal,  September  22,  1877; 
published  in  GREEN  FIELDS  AND  RUNNING  BROOKS 
—1892,  FARM  RHYMES — 1901,  SONGS  OF  SUMMER 
— 1908,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911.  Stanzas  3 
to  9,  inclusive,  do  not  appear  in  the  early  version, 
while  the  following  stanza,  not  in  the  present  text, 
formerly  followed  the  fourth  stanza  frona  the  last: 

And  spreads  a  glowing  landscape  at  my  feet,— 
An  orchard  and  a  vineyard,  arm  in  arm, 

Drawn  on  a  ground  of  green  and  gold — a  sweet 
Creation  of  a  farm. 

In  addition  to  these  alterations  the  body  of  the 
text  has  been  thoroughly  revised  since  its  early 
composition. 


NOTES  407 

p.  90  THE  OLD  GUITAR 

Dated  January  7,  1876;  first  printed  in  The 
Indianapolis  Sentinel,  January  9,  1876;  published 
in  HOME  FOLKS — 1900,  SONGS  OF  HOME — 1910, 
THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911. 

p.  92  "FRIDAY  AFTERNOON" 

First  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Sentinel,  Jan 
uary  30,  1876;  published  in  His  PA'S  ROMANCE 
(Homestead  Edition) — 1908,  special  edition  under 
the  title,  OLD  SCHOOLDAY  ROMANCES — 1909,  THE 
LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911.  Stanzas  6,  7,  8,  10,  n 
and  14  were  added  when  the  poem  was  published  in 
book  form.  The  body  of  the  text  has  been  revised 
throughout.  Stanza  9  originally  stood  as  follows: 

An  "Essay  of  the  Science 

Of  Trigonometry," 
And    "Cataline's    Defiance," 

And  may  be  two  or  three 
Short  dialogues,  and  punny, 

And  a  little  boy  in  blue 
Winds  up  with  something  funny 

Like    "Cock-a-doodle-doo !" 

When  the  verses  were  first  written  the  following 
stanza,  now  omitted,  closed  the  poem : 


O!  happy  hearts  and  faces, 

On  that  great  day's  review, 
Will  you  all  be  in  the  places 

That  were  assigned  to  you? 
Will  you  conquer  life's  disasters 

And  with  golden  harps  atune, 
Wait  the  signal  of  the  Master 

On  that  Endless  Afternoon? 


408  NOTES 

These  verses  are  true  to  the  author's  own  experi 
ences.  Dr.  William  Morris  Pierson,  to  whom  the 
poem  is  dedicated,  was  a  school  comrade  of  the 
author  during  the  years  1868-70.  John  Lacy  was 
the  "watchful  master"  of  this  period.  The  "Golden 
Wreath"  song-book  and  the  recitations  were  used 
time  out  of  mind  as  described. 

p.  97  "JOHNSON'S  BOY" 

Printed  in  The  Hancock  Democrat  (Greenfield, 
Indiana),  February  10,  1876,  signed  "Jay  Whit"; 
hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form. 

p.  99  HER  BEAUTIFUL  HANDS 

First  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Sentinel,  Feb 
ruary  20,  1876,  under  the  title,  Beautiful  Hands; 
published  in  a  prose  sketch,  The  Gilded* Roll,  in 
PIPES  o"  PAN — 1888,  His  PA'S  ROMANCE — 1903, 
SONGS  OF  HOME — 1910,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK— 
1911. 

p.  101  NATURAL  PERVERSITIES 

Printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Sentinel,  March  26, 
1876,  with  the  title,  Lusus  Naturae;  published  in 
ARMAZINDY — 1894,  SONGS  OF  HOME — 1910. 

p.  104  THE  SILENT  VICTORS 

Read  May  30,  1876,  at  Newcastle,  Indiana;  last 
eight  stanzas  printed  in  The  Newcastle  Mercury, 
June  I,  1876;  poem  entire  printed  with  the  title, 
The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead  in  The  Anderson  Demo 
crat,  June  i,  1877;  published  in  ARMAZINDY — 1894, 
THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911.  On  May  30,  1878, 
the  author  read  the  poem  at  the  Decoration  Day  ex- 


NOTES  409 

ercises  held  at  Crown  Hill  Cemetery,  Indianapolis. 
Since  then,  the  dedication  to  his  friend  and  literary 
comrade,  Major  Charles  L.  Holstein,  has  been 
added,  and  many  changes  made  in  the  text.  The 
following  stanza,  which  ended  the  first  section  in 
the  early  version,  is  omitted  from  the  later : 

And  lives  that  bound  themselves  in  strongest  chain 
Were  severed,  and  the  broken  links  of  love 

In  fragments  now  must  evermore  remain 
Until  rejoined  above. 

Stanza  4  of  Section  2  formerly  read  as  follows : 

The  noisy  hum  of  industry  and  thrift 

That  marks  the  newer  day  that  peace  has  blessed, 
Can  give  no  hope  the  hero's  head  to  lift 

Out  of  its  dreamless  rest. 

Mr.  Riley  wrote  this  poem  when  studying  law  in 
the  office  of  his  father,  who  had  been  a  captain  in 
the  Union  Army.  The  stirring  echoes  of  the  Civil 
War  were  still  reverberating  through  the  land  at 
that  time,  and  Captain  Riley,  who  was  a  natural 
orator,  was  called  for  on  repeated  occasions  to 
make  patriotic  speeches.  Doubtless  the  fervor  of 
this  environment  produced  the  poem. 

The  writer  valued  as  an  honor  and  encourage 
ment  the  invitation  to  read  the  verses  at  the  New 
castle  Decoration  Day  exercises  in  1876,  extended 
through  his  friends,  Benj.  S.  Parker  and  Judge 
Eugene  Bundy.  In  this  incident  is  shown  Mr. 
Parker's  early  recognition  of  Mr.  Riley's  poetic 
gift,  and  the  kind  of  encouragement  he  tendered. 

p.  110  SCRAPS 

First  printed  in  The  Nezvcastle  Mercury,  June 
8,  1876;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form.  The 


410  NOTES 

editor  of  this  paper  was  the  author's  friend,  Benj. 
S.  Parker. 

p.  112  AUGUST 

Composed  during-  August,  1876;  first  printed 
in  The  Indianapolis  Journal,  August  14,  1877; 
published  in  GREEN  FIELDS  AND  RUNNING  BROOKS 
— 1892,  SONGS  OF  SUMMER — 1908,  THE  LOCKERBIE 
BOOK — 1911.  While  writing  this  poem  and  several 
others,  the  author  availed  himself  of  the  counsel  of 
Captain  Lee  O.  Harris,  who  had  been  his  favorite 
teacher.  The  reference  recalls  a  significant  incident 
of  the  schoolroom,  where  Captain  Harris  once 
"caught"  the  boy  Riley  reading  a  dime  novel  during 
the  study  period.  The  latter  had  ingeniously  fast 
ened  a  rubber  band  to  the  book  and  this  whisked  it 
quickly  out  of  sight  when  the  book  was  released  by 
his  thumb.  His  teacher  told  him  that  if  he  was 
so  determined  to  read  he  would  select  his  reading 
for  him,  and  promptly  introduced  him  to  his  own 
library  and  interested  him  in  Dickens,  Longfellow, 
Tennyson  and  other  standard  authors.  Captain 
Harris  wrote  poetry  himself,  and  so  the  two  came 
to  have  an  intimate  mutual  interest. 

p.  114  DEAD  IN  SIGHT  OF  FAME 

Dated  September  5,  1876,  first  printed  in  The 
Hancock  Democrat,  September  7,  1876;  hitherto 
unpublished  in  book  form.  These  lines  were  writ 
ten  on  the  death  of  Hamilton  J.  Dunbar,  a  member 
of  the  law  firm  of  Dunbar  and  New,  of  Greenfield, 
Indiana,  who  was  a  strong  personality  with  keen 
literary  perceptions  and  appreciations.  He  was  one 
of  the  first  to  give  Mr.  Riley  real  encouragement  in 
his  work^and  the  latter  held  him  as  an  ideal.  Judge 
J.  W.  Lowe,  of  Kansas  City,  says  of  him :  "I  believe 


NOTES  411 

he  had  the  most  brilliant  intellect  I  ever  met.  He 
was  one  of  those  rare  creatures  so  seldom  encoun 
tered  who  walks  tenderly  by  our  side,  reciprocates 
our  regards,  and  seems  to  comprehend  and  under 
stand  us  thoroughly,  and  makes  us  feel  that  his  soul 
was  created  in  the  same  mould.  He  was  a  brilliant 
force  in  politics  and  was  one  of  the  most  ready  and 
inspired  orators  to  be  found  anywhere.  I  believed, 
when  I  knew  him,  and  believe  still,  that  if  he  had 
lived,  by  this  time  he  would  have  been  one  of  the 
great  leaders  in  our  national  life."  Following  his 
death,  a  memorial  meeting  of  the  Hancock  County 
Bar  Association  was  held  in  his  honor,  at  which 
time  addresses  were  made  by  various  members  and 
by  visiting  attorneys  of  distinction  from  the  Indi 
anapolis  bar.  On  this  occasion  Mr.  Riley  read  the 
poem. 

p.  116  IN  THE  DARK 

Composed  prior  to  November,  1876;  first  printed 
in  The  Indianapolis  Journal,  March  16,  1877; 
published  in  PIPES  o'  PAN — 1888,  THE  LOCKERBIE 
BOOK — 1911.  The  following  stanzas  completed  the 
poem  in  the  original  version  but  have  since  been 
omitted : 

I  moan  with  a  passionate  yearning, 
And  a  flood  of  hopes  and  fears 

Flows  o'er  the  troubled  spirit, 
And  ebbs  in  a  tide  of  tears. 

The  gleam  of  a  star  through  the  window 

Falls  like  a  soothing  touch; 
And  darkness  wears  to  the  dawning 

For  which  I  long  so  much. 

The  dawn  when  the  sun  shall  ripen 

The  soul  in   its  genial  light, 
And  banish  the  tears  like  the  dewdrops 

That  cling  to  the  fruit  at  night. 


412  NOTES 

In  the  fall  of  1876,  when  Mr.  Riley  was  much 
discouraged  in  his  literary  ambitions  and  felt  that 
after  all  there  might  be  no  success  or  recognition 
for  his  poetry,  he  wrote  to  Longfellow  and  enclosed 
several  of  his  poems,  including  this  one  written  in  a 
style  reminiscent  of  Longfellow's.  The  letter  of  en 
couragement  which  he  received  in  reply  proved  a 
turning  point  in  his  life.  He  describes  the  effect 
upon  him  in  the  following  letter  to  Benj.  S.  Parker: 

Greenfield,  Ind.,  Nov.  6,  1876. 
Dear  Parker: 

I'm  in  a  perfect  hurricane  of  delight,  and  must  erupt 
to  you,  "O  gentlest  of  my  friends."  I  sent  you  a  postal 
recently  stating  my  intention  of  addressing  Longfellow — 
well — his  response  to  my  letter  lies  open  before  me,  and 
as  it  is  brief,  I  will  quote  it  verbatim: — 

"Cambridge,  Nov.  3d,  1876. 
My  dear  Sir : 

Not  being  in  the  habit  of  criticising  the  production  of 
others,  I  can  not  enter  into  any  minute  discussion  of  the 
merits  of  the  poems  you  send  me. 

I  can  only  say  in  general  terms,  that  I  have  read  them 
with  great  pleasure,  and  think  they  show  the  true  poetic 
faculty  and  insight. 

The  only  criticism  I  shall  make  is  on  your  use  of  the 
word  prone  in  the  thirteenth  line  of  "Destiny.0  Prone 
means  face-downward.  You  meant  to  say  supine  as  the 
context  shows. 

I  return  the  printed  pieces  as  you  may  want  them  for 
future  use,  and  am,  My  dear  Sir, 

With    all    good   wishes, 

Yours  very  truly 
Henry  W.   Longfellow." 

SHAKE!  And  let  me  thank  you  for  the  very  great  en 
couragement  I  have  received  from  you,  and  your  genial 
friendship  from  our  first  acquaintance.  .  .  . 

J.  W.  Riley. 

The  poem  Destiny  mentioned  by  Longfellow  ap 
pears  in  A  CHILD-WORLD  with  the  title  of  The 


NOTES  413 

Dreamer.  Other  poems  sent  to  Longfellow  at 
this  time  were  //  /  Knew  What  Poets  Know  and 
The  Iron  Horse.  He  returned  the  verses  clipped 
from  newspapers,  but  retained  the  manuscript  of 
In  the  Dark. 

p.  118  THE  IRON  HORSE 

Written  prior  to  November,  1876;  dated  July 
u,  1878,  first  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Jour 
nal,  July  13,  1878;  published  in  GREEN  FIELDS  AND 
RUNNING  BROOKS — 1892,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 
1911.  This  poem  was  enclosed  in  the  letter  to 
Longfellow,  mentioned  in  the  previous  note.  It 
was  always  a  favorite  of  Mr.  Riley. 

p.  121  DEAD  LEAVES 

First  printed  in  The  Newcastle  Mercury,  No 
vember  16,  1876,  under  the  caption  Three  Sonnets 
to  Autumn,  subtitled  Morning,  Evening,  Night; 
Morning  (now  entitled  Dawn)  and  Night,  hitherto 
unpublished  in  book  form;  Evening  (now  entitled 
Dusk)  published  in  AFTERWHILES — 1887,  OLD- 
FASHIONED  ROSES — 1888,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 
1911. 

p.  123         OVER  THE  EYES  OF  GLADNESS 

Dated  November  20,  1876,  printed  in  The  Han 
cock  Democrat,  November  23,  1876;  hitherto  un 
published  in  book  form.  Katie  Beecher,  infant 
daughter  of  Frederick  and  California  Beecher,  died 
at  Greenfield,  November  18,  1876.  The  public  an 
nouncement  read : 

She  was  a  bright  and  promising  child,  and  her  loss 
will  be  felt  the  keener  that  she  was  one  of  twin  daughters, 


414  NOTES 

upon  whom  was   lavished  the  love  and  interest  of  the 
fondest  of  parents. 

p.  125  ONLY  A  DREAM 

Dated  November  23,  1876;  hitherto  unpublished, 
p.  127  OUR  LITTLE  GIRL 

First  printed  in  The  Hancock  Democrat,  De 
cember  7,  1876 ;  published  in  MORNING — 1907,  THE 
LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911.  The  Hancock  Democrat 
of  December  7,  1876,  contained  the  following  no 
tice  : — "DIED. — Minnie,  infant  daughter  of  William 
and  Catherine  Crider,  Tuesday,  Dec.  5,  1876,  at 
Franklin,  Ind.  In  her  last  moments  she  said:  'O, 
Dod,  I  tan't  stan'  dis/  J:  The  tragic  incident  sug 
gested  a  poem  which  Mr.  Riley  called  Minnie. 
Later,  giving  it  the  present  title,  he  rearranged  it, 
placing  the  second  stanza  first  and  writing  an  en 
tirely  new  stanza  in  place  of  the  last,  which  was : 

And  yet  she  failed  and   faltered; 

And  though  tears  are  in  our  eyes, 
We  smile  to  think  her  spirit 

Went  lisping  to   the   skies; 
For  we  know — in   Christ  believing — 

Lips  are  ripest  for  His  kiss, 
When  in  simplest  faith  they  murmur, 

"O,  Dod,  I  tan't  stan'  dis." 

p.  128  THE  FUNNY  LITTLE  FELLOW 

Quoted  in  Mr.  Riley's  letter  of  December  12, 
1876,  to  Benj.  S.  Parker;  printed  in  The  Indian 
apolis  Journal,  April  13,  1877;  published  in 
RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD — 1890,  CHILD  RHYMES — 
1898,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911.  The  poem  was 


NOTES  415 

originally  entitled  The  Funny  Fellow.  Lines  5  to 
8,  inclusive,  of  the  second  stanza  were: 

And   to    hear   him    snap    the    trigger 

Of  a  pun,  or  crack  a  joke, 
Would  make  you  laugh  and  snigger 

Till  every  button  broke. 

In  the  early  version  the  following  lines  were  in 
serted  between  stanzas  I  and  2 : 

He  was  meek  as  any   Quaker — 

When  it  furthered  fun's  desire — 
Solemn   as   an  undertaker 

If  occasion  should  require: 
He  could  wreathe  his  rosy  features 

With  a  sorrowful  belief, 
And   lead   all  weeping  creatures 

To  the  very  tomb  of  Grief. 

Mr.  Riley's  letter  to  Benj.  S.  Parker  referring  to 
this  poem  is  quoted  in  part  as  follows : 

Greenfield,  Ind.  -  -  Dec.  12,  76. 
My  dear  Parker: 

...  I  have  illustrated  a  serio-humorous  poem,  and  sent, 
for  inspection,  to  Scribner's.  I'm  certain  my  illustrations 
are  as  good  as  the  average,  found  in  Bric-a-Brac  of  that 
Monthly — both  in  design  and  drawing,  and  I  tho't  'twould 
be  a  good  idea  to  combine  both  poet  and  artist — as  such 
an  article  will  be  the  more  likely  to  attract  the  Editor's 
attention — don't  you  think  so?  I  have  heard  nothing  in 
reply  as  yet.  I  addressed  them,  asking  their  patronage, 
and  backing  my  ability  with  my  Longfellow  letter — so  you 
can  imagine  how  anxiously  I  am  awaiting  their  reply.  In 
the  poem  I  sent  are  several  little  touches  you  would  like  I 
am  sure — yet  the  poem  as  a  whole  is  not  deep  by  any 
means.  I  quote  the  first  two  verses  that  you  may  see  the 
style, 

[Quotation] 

Well !  you  must  pardon  my  brevity,  for  I  am  very  busy — 
sign  painting — I  wonder  am  I  destined  to  succeed  T.  Bu- 


416  NOTES 

chanan  Reid  in  that  title  "The  Painter  Poet/'  Ha!  Ha! 
Ha !  I'm  sorry,  too,  I  cannot  come  to  you  during  the  Holi 
days — nothing  would  please  better,  and  as  to  pay — I 
wouldn't  want  it — only  your  companionship. 

Your  friend, 
J.  W.  Riley. 

Scribner's  Magazine  did  not  publish  the  poem. 

p.  131  SONG  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR 

Dated  January  I,  1877,  printed  in  The  Indian 
apolis  Journal,  January  10,  1877;  hitherto  unpub 
lished  in  book  form. 

p.  133  A  LETTER  TO  A  FRIEND 

Dated  Greenfield,  January  n,  1877;  hitherto 
unpublished.  The  letter  was  addressed  to  Mrs. 
Nellie  Millikan  Cooley,  an  old  friend,  who  had 
moved  from  Greenfield  to  Illinois.  She  and  her 
brother,  Jesse  Millikan,  were  among  Mr.  Riley's 
earliest  literary  comrades  and  advisers,  and  from 
the  first  had  a  firm  faith  in  his  ultimate  success. 

p.  134  LINES  FOR  AN  ALBUM 

These  lines  are  found  in  an  album  belonging  to 
Miss  Lizzie  Harris,  of  Greenfield,  Indiana,  dated 
January,  1877;  hitherto  unpublished.  They  were 
written  when  Mr.  Riley  was  visiting  in  the  home 
of  Miss  Harris's  father,  Captain  Lee  O.  Harris. 

Line  8 :  The  quotation  is  from  Longfellow's  The 
Rainy  Day. 

p.  135  TO  ANNIE 

Written  in  Miss  Annie  Harris's  album  January 
21,  1877;  not  hitherto  printed.  See  preceding  note, 
referring  to  the  inscription  in  her  sister's  album. 


NOTES:  41; 

p.  136  FAME 

First  printed  in  The  Earlhamite,  the  magazine 
of  Earlham  College,  February,  1877;  published  in 
THE  Boss  GIRL — 1885,  AFTERWHILES — 1887,  OLD- 
FASHIONED  ROSES — 1888,  SKETCHES  IN  PROSE — 
1891,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911.  Of  all  his 
poems,  this  was  the  favorite  of  the  writer's  father. 
It  won  this  significant  public  comment  in  The  Rich 
mond  Telegram: 

The  February  number  of  The  Earlhamite  is  out,  with 
a  table  of  contents  of  unusual  excellence.  The  initial 
paper  is  a  poem  by  J.  W.  Riley  (a  Hoosier  poet  unknown 
to  fame),  which  betrays  the  touch  of  genius  in  every  line. 

p.  139  AN  EMPTY  NEST 

Dated  Greenfield,  February  5,  1877,  ^rst  printed 
in  The  Indianapolis  Journal,  February  7,  1877; 
published  in  MORNING — 1907.  The  original  version 
of  the  poem  ended  in  the  following  stanza  which 
was  later  omitted : 

O  weary,  palpitating  breast! 

The  friends  we  think  are  ours  alone, 
And  cherish  most,  and  love  the  best, 

Will  fly  as  soon  as  wings  have  grown, 
And  leave  the  heart  an  empty  nest. 

p.  140  MY  FATHER'S  HALLS 

First  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Journal,  Feb 
ruary  16,  1877,  in  the  prose  sketch,  A  Remarkable 
Man;  published  in  SKETCHES  IN  PROSE — 1891. 
An  imitation  of  Cervantes. 

p.  141        THE  HARP  OF  THE  MINSTREL 

First  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Journal,  Feb 
ruary  1 6,  1877,  in  the  prose  sketch,  A  Remarkable 


418  NOTES 

Man;  published  in  SKETCHES  IN  PROSE — 1891.    An 
imitation  of  Thomas  Moore. 

p.  143    HONEY  DRIPPING  FROM  THE  COMB 

First  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Journal  with 
the  title,  A  Whisper,  February  22,  1877;  pub 
lished  in  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD — 1890,  SONGS  OF 
HOME — 1910,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911.  As 
indicated  by  a  torn  manuscript,  the  first  two  stanzas 
given  below,  and  at  least  one  other,  preceded  stan 
zas  I  and  2  in  the  original  form  of  this  poem,  and 
the  remaining  stanzas  given  below  and  two  others, 
too  mutilated  to  read,  completed  it : 

And  gaily  spangled  days  of  shade  and  shine, 

With  evenings  in  costume 
Of  dusk  and  diamonds — under  veils  divine 

Of  moonlight,  with  perfume 

Of  Locust  blossoms   dowering  the  sigh 

Of  drowsy  breezes  with  a  wealth  that  brings 

So  deft  a  memory  its  ghost  flits  by 
Me  now  on  odorous  wings. 

pictures  creep 

Past  the  proscenium  Remembrance : — 

Two  barefoot  boys,  on  Mischief's  Mission,  leap 
Over  an  orchard  fence — 

And  here  a  study  from  a  summer  noon, — 
Are  clinging  in  a  swinging  tree-top's  crown 

Two  hatless  boys,  drunk  with  the  air  of  June, 
Drawn  on  a  golden  ground; 

And  here  another — of  an  old  schoolroom, — 
A  rueful  urchin  cowers  'neath  the  rod — 

Could  we  rehearse  it  and  enjoy  the  doom? — 
Give  back  my  paper  wad ! 

Ah!  Schoolboy  chum,  your  victory  it  was 
When  deepest  in  disgrace,  enthroned  "the 
Dunce"— 


NOTES  419 

Compelled  to  "stay  in"  two  whole  weeks  because 
You  flogged,  at  recess,  once, 

The  preacher's  boy— I  loved  you  all  the  more, 


If  they  be  foolish,  why  this  old  heart  warms 
With  holy  fire  the  while  with  upturned  gaze, 

Grasping  at  Heaven  with  poor,  palsied  arms, 
I  bless  the  Good  old  Days. — 

Aye !  bless  these  memories  of  ours,  old  Chum ! 

God  keep  them  ever  green  while  spared  us,  and 
Like  little  children  suffer  us  to  come 

Into  the  Perfect  Land! 


p.  144  JOHN  WALSH 

This  poem  was  printed  on  the  funeral  announce 
ment  of  John  Walsh  and  dated  Greenfield,  Febru 
ary  23,  1877;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form. 
John  Walsh  was  born  in  Limerick  County,  Ireland, 
in  the  twenties  of  the  last  century  and  came  to 
America  when  a  youth.  When  he  reached  Green 
field  he  had  just  money  enough  to  buy  a  maul  to 
use  in  splitting  timber.  He  was  lucky  at  every 
thing  he  undertook,  and  was  by  turns  a  stock- 
buyer,  a  butcher  and  finally  a  saloon-keeper. 
He  was  conspicuous  for  the  kindness  of  his  heart 
and  for  his  open  generosity.  He  died  February  23, 
1877.  The  verses  were  written  to  comfort  his  son 
James,  a  friend  of  the  author. 

p.  146  ORLIE  WILDE 

Dated  Anderson,  April  18,  1877,  first  printed 
in  The  Indianapolis  Journal,  April  19,  1877;  pub 
lished  in  ARMAZINDY — 1894,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK 
— 1911.  Since  its  first  appearance  the  poem  has 


420  NOTES 

been    revised    throughout.    The    following    lines, 
which  formerly  ended  the  poem,  have  been  omitted : 

He  sadly  smiled,  and  raised  his  head, 
And  in  this  vein  continued : 
"I  said  'her  voice's  music' — well 
'Twas  that  indeed  that  broke  the  spell 
Of  my  strange  love,  for  listening — Lo ! 
She  spoke  bad  grammar,  don't  you  know- 
As  fisher  maidens  always  do, 
With  golden  hair  and  eyes  of  blue. 


p.  154          THAT  OTHER  MAUD  MULLER 

First  printed  in  The  Anderson  Democrat,  April 
27,  1877;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form. 
The  Cincinnati  Commercial  of  December  26,  1877, 
printed  the  verses  in  an  article  entitled  The  Lit 
erary  Doings  of  the  Stuffed  Club,  a  humorous 
sketch  of  the  first  and  only  meeting  of  an  organ 
ization  composed  of  "Larry,  Jack  and  the  Jay- 
whoop"  (Captain  Lee  O.  Harris,  Mr.  J.  M.  Ander 
son  and  Mr.  Riley)  : 

The  name  was  given  by  the  Jay-whoop,  who  says,  "Since 
the  public  is  to  be  the  helpless  victim  of  our  atrocities,  it 
behooves  us  to  employ  a  weapon  that  will  buffet  but  not 
bruise — belt  but  not  mangle — knock  down,  but  with  a 
certain  modesty  that  produces  annihilation — " 

As  an  encouragement  to  the  venerated  "John  G.  Whit- 
taker"  the  Jay-whoop  read  the  following  little  ballad. 
....  [The  verses  follow.] 

After  listening  to  the  poem  that  had  fallen  like  a  blight 
upon  the  circle,  the  club  next  took  up  the  pernicious  habit 
of  pie  eating,  and  Larry  read  an  original  poem,  Joseph 
Brown  and  the  Mince  Pie. 

Then  they  rose,  joined  hands,  sang  a  hymn,  pronounced 
a  sad  and  solemn  benison  upon  each  other  and  folded  their 
ears  like  the  members  of  other  clubs, 

"And   silently   stole   away." 


NOTES  421 

p.  156  A  MAN  OF  MANY  PARTS 

Printed  in  The  Anderson  Democrat,  May  7, 
1877 ;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form. 

p.  158  THE  FROG 

First  printed  in  The  Anderson  Democrat,  May 
18,  1877;  published  in  ARMAZINDY — 1894,  THE 
LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911.  In  ARMAZINDY  these 
verses  introduce  a  section  called  Make-Believe  and 
Child-Play. 

p.  160  DEAD  SELVES 

Dated  Anderson,  May  21,  1877,  first  printed  in 
The  Indianapolis  Journal,  May  22,  1877;  published 
in  POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME — 1893,  THE  LOCKERBIE 
BOOK — 1911. 

p.  163  A  DREAM  OF  LONG  AGO 

Dated  Anderson,  May  28,  1877,  first  printed  in 
The  Indianapolis  Journal,  June  I,  1877;  hitherto 
unpublished  in  book  form.  The  fact  that  the  mel 
ody  is  reminiscent  of  Poe  is  significant,  as  it  indi 
cates  what  the  writer  was  reading  at  the  time.  See 
the  note  on  Leonainie  referring  to  p.  194. 

p.  166  CRAQUEODOOM 

First  printed  in  The  Anderson  Democrat,  June 
i,  1877;  published  in  NYE  AND  RILEY'S  RAILWAY 
GUIDE — 1888,  THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF  THE  NIGHT 
— 1900.  In  the  latter  book  the  verses  are  entitled 
Spirk  Troll-Derisive  and  appear  in  a  section  called 
Spirk  and  Wunk  Rhymes,  Rounds  and  Catches. 
The  second  stanza  is  there  omitted  and  the  lines 


422  NOTES 

altered  by  several  curious  repetitions  to  enhance  the 
weirdness  of  the  effect. 

A  questioning  newspaper  criticism  of  this  poem 
and  Mr.  Riley's  reply  are  as  follows : 

The  weird  lines  by  the  gifted  J.  W.  Riley,  of  The  An 
derson  Democrat,  contain  a  mystery  that  we  have  tried 
in  vain  for  one  solid  hour  to  solve.  What  do  they  mean? 
Will  the  author  be  kind  enough  to  favor  us  with  an  ex 
planation?  He  calls  it  Craqueodoom,  but  the  meaning  of 
the  title  itself  is  as  obscure  as  that  of  the  poetry  that 
supplements  it.  We  have  read  and  reread  it  a  score  of 
times  and  for  the  life  of  us  we  can't  get  an  idea  out  of 
it,  only  that  it  is  the  most  weird  piece  of  poetic  thought 
we  have  ever  read.  It  reads  like  an  effusion  of  some 
poetic  genius  of  the  fabled  age,  in  which  "Mother  Goose" 
wrote  her  melodies. — Kokomo  Dispatch. 


Although  in  endeavoring  to  reply  to  the  above  query  I 
feel  that  I  place  myself  in  rather  a  peculiar  position,  I 
can  but  trust,  in  so  doing,  to  escape  the  incessant  storm  of 
inquiries  hailed  so  piteously  upon  me  since  the  appear 
ance  of  the  above  mentioned  poem — or  whatever  it  is. 

As  to  its  meaning — if  it  has  any — I  am  as  much  in  the 
dark,  and  as  badly  worried  over  its  incomprehensibility 
as  any  one  who  may  have  inflicted  himself  with  a  reading 
of  it ;  in  fact,  more  so,  for  I  have  in  my  possession  now 
not  less  than  a  dozen  of  similar  character;  and  when  I 
say  they  were  only  composed  mechanically,  and  without 
apparent  exercise  of  my  own  thought,  I  find  myself  at 
the  threshold  of  a  fact  over  which  I  can  not  pass. 

I  can  only  surmise  that  such  effusions  emanate  from 
long  and  arduous  application — a  sort  of  poetic  fungus 
that  springs  from  the  decay  of  better  effort.  It  bursts 
into  being  of  itself,  and  in  that  alone  do  I  find  consola 
tion. 

The  process  of  such  composition  may  furnish  a  curious 
fact  to  many,  yet  I  am  assured  every  writer  of  either 
poetry  or  music  will  confirm  the  experience  I  am  about 
to  relate. 

<  After  long  labor  at  verse,  you  will  find  there  comes  a 
time  when  everything  you  see  or  hear,  touch,  taste,  or 
smell,  resolves  itself  into  rhyme,  and  rattles  away  till 
you  can't  rest.  I  mean  this  literally.  The  people  you 


NOTES  423 

meet  upon  the  streets  are  so  many  disarranged  rhymes, 
and  only  need  proper  coupling.  The  boulders  in  the  side 
walks  are  jangled  words.  The  crowd  of  corner  loungers 
is  a  mangled  sonnet  with  a  few  lines  lacking;  the  farmer 
and  his  team  an  idyl  of  the  road,  perfected  and  complete 
when  he  stops  at  the  picture  of  a  grocery  and  hitches  to 
an  exclamation  point. 

This  is  my  experience  and  at  times  the  effect  upon  both 
mind  and  body  is  exhausting  in  the  extreme.  I  have 
passed  as  many  as  three  nights  in  succession  without  sleep 
— or  at  least  without  mental  respite  from  this  tireless  some 
thing  which 

"Beats  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 
From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain." 

I  walk,  I  run,  I  writhe  and  wrestle  with  it,  but  I  can 
not  shake  it  off.  I  lie  down  to  sleep,  and  all  night  long 
it  haunts  me.  Whole  cantos  of  incoherent  rhymes  dance 
before  me,  and  so  vividly  at  last,  I  seem  to  read  them  as 
from  a  book.  All  this  is  without  will  power  of  my  own 
to  guide  or  check;  and  then  occurs  a  stage  of  repetition — 
when  the  matter  becomes  rhythmically  tangible  at  least, 
and  shapes  itself  into  a  whole  of  sometimes  a  dozen 
stanzas,  and  goes  on  repeating  itself  over  and  over  till  it 
is  printed  indelibly  on  my  mind. 

This  stage  heralds  sleep  at  last,  from  which  I  wake  re 
freshed  and  free  from  the  toils  of  my  strange  persecutor; 
but  as  I  have  just  said,  some  senseless  piece  of  rhyme  is 
printed  on  my  mind  and  I  go  about  repeating  it  as  though 
I  had  committed  it  from  the  pages  of  some  book.  I  often 
write  these  jingles  afterward,  though  I  believe  I  never 
could  forget  a  word  of  them. 

This  is  the  history  of  the  Craqueodoom.  This  is  the 
history  of  the  poem  I  give  below  \A  Wrangdillion}.  I  have 
theorized  in  vain.  I  went  gravely  to  a  doctor  on  one 
occasion,  and  asked  him  seriously  if  he  didn't  think  I  was 
crazy.  His  laconic  reply  that  he  "never  saw  a  poet  that 
wasn't!"  is  not  without  its  consolations. 


p.  168  JUNE 

Composed  probably  during  June,  1877,  as  shown 
by  a  note-book  in  the  handwriting  of  Mr.  Riley's 
sister,  Elva  Riley  Eitel;  published  in  AFTER- 


424  NOTES 

WHILES — 1887,  OLD-FASHIONED  ROSES — 1888, 
FARM  RHYMES — 1901,  SONGS  OF  SUMMER — 1908, 
DOWN  AROUND  THE  RIVER  AND  OTHER  POEMS — 
1911,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911. 

p.  169       WASH  LOWRY'S  REMINISCENCE 

Printed  in  The  Anderson  Democrat,  June  15, 
1877 ;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form. 

p.  173          THE  ANCIENT  PRINTERMAN 

Printed  in  The  Anderson  Democrat,  June  22  or 
July  6,  1877,  the  issues  of  which  dates  have  been 
destroyed;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form. 

p.  175      PRIOR  TO  MISS  BELLE'S  APPEARANCE 

First  printed  in  The  Anderson  Democrat,  June 
22  or  July  6,  1877,  the  issues  of  which  dates  have 
been  destroyed,  entitled  Willie;  published  in 
RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD — 1890.  Stanzas  2,  3,  4  and 
6  composed  the  early  version;  stanza  4  originally 
read: 

Baby's  a  funnies'   feller! 

Naint  no  hair  on  her  head — > 
Is  they,  Charley? — it's  meller 
Wite  up  there!     I'd  sell  her, 

An'  buy  one  'at  wasn't  so  red — 
Wouldn't  you,  Charley?     Nen  we  could  play 
An'  have  most  fun  with  him  every  day — 
Couldn't  we,  Charley?— an'  have  most  fun. 
Wisht  they'd  a  buyed  a  purtier  one! 

p.  178       WHEN  MOTHER  COMBED  MY  HAIR 

Printed  in  The  Anderson  Democrat,  June  22  or 
July  6,  1877,  the  issues  of  which  dates  have  been 
destroyed;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form. 


NOTES  425 

p.  180  A  WRANGDILLION 

First  printed  in  The  Anderson  Democrat,  July 
6,  1877 ;  published  in  THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF  THE 
NIGHT — 1900.  In  the  latter  the  lines  appear  in  a 
section  entitled  Spirk  and  Wunk  Rhymes,  Rounds 
and  Catches,  where  the  third  stanza  is  omitted  and 
this  chorus  added : 

Nay,  nothing — Nay,  nothing  affects  him  the  least  I 
They  may  say  he  sings  less  like  a  bird  than  a  beast — 
They  may  say  that  his  song  is  both  patchy  and  pieced — < 
That  its  worst  may  be  his,  but  the  best  he  has  fleeced 
From  old  dinky  masters  not  only  deceased 
But  damn'd  ere  their  dying, — Yet  nothing  the  least — 
Nothing  affects  him  the  least ! 

See  preceding  note  on  Craqueodoom  for  comment 
by  Mr.  Riley. 

p.  182       GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION 

First  printed  in  The  Anderson  Democrat,  July 
13,  1877 ;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form. 

p.  191  "TIRED  OUT" 

First  printed  in  The  Anderson  Democrat,  July 
20,  1877;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form.  Be 
neath  the  title  originally  appeared  this  quotation 
from  a  newspaper: 

Pinned  to  the  shawl  of  the  drowned  woman  was  a  scrap 
of  paper  on  which  was  written  simply  the  words,  "Tired 
Out."  There  was  nothing  else  found  upon  the  body  that 
might  promise  to  lead  to  its  identity. 

p.  192  HARLIE 

First  printed  in  Tht  Anderson  Democrat,  July 


426  NOTES 

20,  1877  >  Hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form.  Harlie 
was  the  infant  son  of  Samuel  and  Louise  Richards 
and  died  July  17,  1877.  Mrs.  Richards,  in  an 
article  on  Mr.  Riley's  days  at  Anderson  published 
in  The  Bookman,  September,  1904,  writes  as  fol 
lows  about  the  composition  of  this  poem : 

The  death  of  Richards'  boy  made  upon  Riley  one  of 
the  deep  impressions  of  his  life.  For  the  first  time  he 
found  himself  one  of  the  bearers  of  a  funeral  bier;  for 
the  first  time  he  could  not  speak  to  his  friend  of  what 
was  in  his  heart.  But  a  few  days  later  these  lines,  dedi 
cated  to  a  child  and  simply  signed  "R,"  appeared  in  the 
town  paper. 

p.  193  SAY  SOMETHING  TO  ME 

Dated  Anderson,  August  I,  1877,  first  printed 
in  The  Indianapolis  Journal,  August  5,  1877 ;  pub 
lished  in  HOME  FOLKS — 1900,  THE  LOCKERBIE 
BOOK — 1911.  The  last  three  lines  of  the  poem  for 
merly  were: 

And  the  whole  world   from  above 
I  could  fling  down  like  the  crown  of  a  king 
To  nestle  away  in  your  love. 

p.  194  LEONAINIE 

First  printed  in  The  Kokomo  Dispatch,  August  2, 
1877,  signed  "E.  A.  P." ;  published  in  ARMAZINDY — 
1894,  LOVE  LYRICS — 1899,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 
1911.  The  occasion  of  this  poem  was  a  county 
newspaper  hoax  which  to  the  astonishment  and  dis 
comfort  of  its  author  grew  to  national  proportions 
and  met  with  such  success  as  to  deceive  the  best 
critics  in  America.  Its  perpetration  was  suggested 
by  the  criticism  of  an  editor  on  The  Anderson  Her 
ald,  who  rather  heartlessly  advised  Mr.  Riley  to 
give  up  poetry  and  spoke  disparagingly  in  the 


NOTES  427 

paper  and  to  him  personally  of  his  serious  verse. 
Annoyed  by  this  man's  criticism  and  by  the  re 
turn  of  manuscripts  from  magazines,  a  circum 
stance  this  editor  cited  to  back  up  his  opinion,  Mr. 
Riley  devised  a  plan  to  win  recognition  in  disguise. 
This  was  to  write  a  poem  in  imitation  of  a  well- 
known  author  and  submit  it  to  his  unthinking  critics 
as  a  newly  discovered  manuscript.  A  friend,  the 
editor  of  The  Kokomo  Dispatch,  undertook  to 
launch  the  hoax  in  his  paper.  Mr.  Riley  had  pre 
pared  after  much  thought  an  elaborate  introduction 
which,  however,  the  editor  altered  to  make  it  the 
more  real.  The  original  introductory  story  as  re 
produced  by  Mrs.  Samuel  Richards,  wife  of  Mr. 
Riley's  artist  comrade  in  Anderson,  was  as  follows : 

In  the  woods  of  Howard  County,  Indiana,  a  belated 
hunter,  whom  the  editor  was  to  represent  as  himself,  had 
lost  his  way.  A  terrific  storm  broke  forth,  and  as  he 
wandered  about  in  the  drenching  rain  and  pitchy  dark 
ness,  a  faint  light  suddenly  appeared  in  the  distance. 
Guided  by  its  flickering,  he  made  his  way  toward  it,  which 
brought  him  to  a  cave-like  opening  in  the  side  of  a  hill. 
(The  Kokomo  editor  claims  there  isn't  a  hill  in  Howard 
County  big  enough  for  a  prairie-dog  to  hide  in.) 

Upon  peering  into  the  cavern,  he  saw  a  misshapen, 
hunchbacked  dwarf  preparing  his  evening  meal  over 
some  coals  heaped  together  on  the  earth  floor.  The  hunter 
asked  for  shelter  from  the  storm,  which  the  gnome-like 
creature  only  half  granted. 

In  this  hermit's  room  there  was  a  three-legged  stool  and 
a  rickety  table  upon  which  was  an  old  book.  The  hunter, 
curiously  turning  over  the  leaves,  espied  on  a  fly-leaf  the 
lines  of  a  poem,  evidently  written  a  long  while  ago,  and 
signed  E.  A.  P.  On  being  questioned,  the  little  figure  of 
a  man,  hitherto  as  uncommunicative  as  a  sphinx,  sud 
denly  became  alert,  and  told  how  it  came  to  be  written  in 
his  grandfather's  inn  in  Virginia. 

The  editor  of  The  Kokomo  Dispatch  changed  this 
romantic  introduction  but  left  the  remainder  of  the 


428  NOTES 

story  substantially  as  written  by  Mr.  Riley,  print 
ing-  it  with  the  poem  in  his  issue  of  August  2,  1877, 
as  follows : 

POSTHUMOUS   POETRY 

A    HITHERTO    UNPUBLISHED    POEM    OF    THE    LAMENTED    EDGAR 

ALLAN    POE — WRITTEN    ON    THE   FLY-LEAF   OF   AN 

OLD  BOOK   NOW  IN  POSSESSION  OF  A 

GENTLEMEN  OF  THIS  CITY 

The  following  beautiful  posthumous  poem  from  the 
gifted  pen  of  the  erratic  poet,  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  we  be 
lieve  has  never  before  been  published  in  any  form,  either 
in  any  published  collection  of  Poe's  poems  now  extant,  or 
in  any  magazine  or  newspaper  of  any  description;  and 
until  the  critics  shall  show  conclusively  to  the  contrary,  The 
Dispatch  shall  claim  the  honor  of  giving  it  to  the  world. 

That  the  poem  has  never  before  been  published,  and  that 
it  is  a  genuine  production  of  the  poet  whom  we  claim  to 
be  its  author,  we  are  satisfied  from  the  circumstances 
under  which  it  came  into  our  possession,  after  a  thorough 
investigation.  Calling  at  the  house  of  a  gentleman  of  this 
city  the  other  day,  on  a  business  errand,  our  attention 
was  called  to  a  poem  written  on  the  blank  fly-leaf  of  an 
old  book.^  Handing  us  the  book  he  observed  that  it  (the 
poem)  might  be  good  enough  to  publish,  and  that  if  we 
thought  so,  to  take  it  along.  Noticing  the  initials  E.  A.  P. 
at  the  bottom  of  the  poem,  it  struck  us  that  possibly  we 
had  ^run  across  a  "bonanza,"  so  to  speak,  and  after  read 
ing  it,  we  asked  who  its  author  was,  when  he  related  the 
following  bit  of  interesting  reminiscence :  He  said  he 
did  not  know  who  the  author  was,  only  that  he  was  a 
young  man,  that  is,  he  was  a  young  man  when  he  wrote 
the  lines  referred  to.  He  had  never  seen  him  himself, 
but  heard  his  grandfather,  who  gave  him  the  book  con 
taining  the  verses,  tell  of  the  circumstances  and  the  occa 
sion  by  which  he,  the  grandfather,  came  into  possession 
of  the  book.  His  grandparents  kept  a  country  hotel,  a 
sort  of  a  wayside  inn,  in  a  small  village  called  Chester 
field,  near  Richmond,  Va.  One  night,  just  before  bed 
time,  a  young  man,  who  showed  plainly  the  iiaarki  of  dis 
sipation,  rapped  at  the  door  and  asked  if  he  could  stay 


NOTES  429 

all  night,  and  was  shown  to  a  room.  This  was  the  last 
they  saw  of  him.  When  they  went  to  his  room  the  next 
morning  to  call  him  to  breakfast  he  had  gone  away  and 
left  the  book,  on  the  fly-leaf  of  which  he  had  written  the 
lines  given  below. 

Further  than  this  our  informant  knew  nothing,  and  be 
ing  an  uneducated,  illiterate  man,  it  was  quite  natural 
that  he  should  allow  the  great  literary  treasure  to  go  for 
so  many  years  unpublished. 

That  the  above  statement  is  true,  and  our  discovery  no 
canard,  we  will  take  pleasure  in  satisfying  any  one  who 
cares  to  investigate  the  matter.  The  poem  is  written  in 
Roman  characters,  and  is  almost  as  legible  as  print  itself, 
although  somewhat  faded  by  the  lapse  of  time.  Another 
peculiarity  in  the  manuscript  which  we  notice  is  that 
it  contains  not  the  least  sign  of  erasure  or  a  single  inter- 
lineated  word.  We  give  the  poem  verbatim — just  as  it 
appears  in  the  original. 

The  editor  of  The  Anderson  Herald  fell  an  easy 
victim  to  the  hoax,  and  copying  Leonainie  from  The 
Kokomo  Dispatch  commented  as  follows : 

We  expect  a  rhapsody  of  jealous  censure  from  the  jing 
ling  editor  of  the  sheet  across  the  way,  and  shall  wait 
with  the  first  anxiety  ever  experienced  for  the  appear 
ance  of  The  Democrat.  We  look  for  an  exhausting  and 
damning  criticism  from  Riley,  who  will  doubtless  fail  to 
see  "Leonainie's"  apocryphal  merit,  and  discover  its  ob 
vious  faults.  As  it  is,  we  are  led  to  believe  Leonainie, 
to  quote  from  Riley,  is  a  "superior  quality  of  the  poetical 
fungus,  which  springs  from  the  decay  of  better  thoughts." 

The  "jingling  editor,"  of  course,  rose  to  the  oc 
casion  by  reproducing  the  poem  with  copious  com 
ment,  containing  this  "jealous  censure": 

We  frankly  admit  that  upon  first  reading  the  article, 
we  inwardly  resolved  not  to  be  startled;  in  fact  we  in 
wardly  resolved  to  ignore  it  entirely;  but  a  sense  of  jus 
tice  due— if  not  to  Poe,  to  the  poem—has  induced  us  to 
let  slip  a  few  remarks. 


430  NOTES 

We  have  given  the  matter  not  a  little  thought;  and  in 
what  we  shall  have  to  say  regarding  it,  we  will  say  with 
purpose  far  superior  to  prejudicial  motives,  and  with  the 
earnest  effort  of  beating  through  the  gloom  a  pathway  to 
the  light  of  truth. 

Passing  the  many  assailable  points  of  the  story  regard 
ing  the  birth  and  late  discovery  of  the  poem,  we  will 
briefly  consider  first — Is  Poe  the  author  of  it? 

That  a  poem  contains  some  literary  excellence  is  no  as 
surance  that  its  author  is  a  genius  known  to  fame,  for 
how  many  waifs  of  richest  worth  are  now  afloat  upon  the 
literary  sea  whose  authors  are  unknown,  and  whose  name 
less  names  have  never  marked  the  graves  that  hid  their 
value  from  the  world;  and  in  the  present  instance  we 
have  no  right  to  say, — "This  is  Poe's  work — for  who  but 
Poe  could  mold  a  name  like  Leonainic?  and  all  that 
sort  of  flighty  flummery.  Let  us  look  deeper  down,  and 
pierce  below  the  glare  and  gurgle  of  the  surface,  and  an 
alyze  it  at  its  real  worth. 

Now  we  are  ready  to  consider, — Is  the  theme  of  the 
poem  one  that  Poe  would  have  been  likely  to  select?  We 
think  not;  for  we  have  good  authority  showing  that  Poe 
had  a  positive  aversion  to  children,  and  especially  to 
babies.  And  then  again,  the  thought  embodied  in  the  very 
opening  line  is  not  new — or  at  least  the  poet  has  before 
expressed  it  where  he  speaks  of  that  "rare  and  radiant 
maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore,"  and  a  careful 
analysis  of  the  remainder  of  the  stanza  fails  to  discover 
a  single  quality  above  mere  change  of  form  or  trans 
position. 

The  second  verse  will  be  a  more  difficult  matter  to  con 
test;  for  we  find  in  it  throughout  not  only  Poe's  peculiar 
bent  of  thought,  but  new  features  of  that  weird  facility 
of  attractively  combining  with  the  delicate  and  beautiful, 
the  dread  and  repulsive — a  power  most  rarely  manifest, 
and  quite  beyond  the  bounds  of  imitation.  In  fact,  the 
only  flaw  we  find  at  which  to  pick,  is  the  strange  omission 
of  capitals  beginning  the  personified  words  "joy"  and 
"doom."  This,  however,  may  be  an  error  of  the  com 
positor's,  but  not  probably. 

The  third  stanza  drops  again.  True,  it  gives  us  some 
new  thoughts,  but  of  very  secondary  worth  compared  with 
the  foregoing,  and  in  such  commonplace  diction  the  Poe- 
characteristic  is  almost  directly  lost. 

The  first  line  of  the  concluding  stanza,  although  em 
bodying  a  highly  poetical  idea,  is  not  at  all  like  Poe;  but 


NOTES  431 

rather  so  unlike,  and  for  such  weighty  reasons  we  are  al 
most  assured  that  the  thought  could  not  have  emanated 
with  him. 

It  is  a  fact  less  known  than  remarkable  that  Poe 
avoided  the  name  of  the  Deity.  Although  he  never  tires 
of  angels  and  the  heavenly  cherubim,  the  word  God  seems 
strangely  ostracized.  That  this  is  true,  one  has  but  to 
search  his  poems;  and  we  feel  we  are  safe  in  the  asser 
tion  that  in  all  that  he  has  ever  written  the  word  God  is 
not  mentioned  twenty  times.  In  further  evidence  of  this 
peculiar  aversion  of  the  poet's  we  quote  his  utterance, — 
"Oh,  Heaven!  oh,  God! 

How  my  heart  beats  in  coupling  these  two  words !" 
The  remainder  of  the  concluding  verse  is   mediocre  till 
the  few  lines  that  complete  it — and  there  again  the  Poe- 
element  is  strongly  marked. 

To  sum  the  poem  as  a  whole  we  are  at  seme  loss.  It 
most  certainly  contains  rare  attributes  of  grace  and  beauty ; 
and  although  we  have  not  the  temerity  to  accuse  the 
gifted  Poe  of  its  authorship,  for  equal  strength  of  reason 
we  can  not  deny  that  it  is  his  production;  but  as  for  the 
enthusiastic  editor  of  The  Dispatch,  we  are  not  inclined, 
as  yet,  to  the  belief  that  he  is  wholly  impervious  to  the 
wiles  of  deception. 

Thereupon  the  editor  of  The  Herald  congratu 
lated  himself  on  his  predictions  fulfilled.  'True  to 
our  prognostication  of  last  week,"  he  said,  "J.  W. 
Riley,  editor  of  The  Democrat,  slashes  into  Leo- 
nainie  in  a  jealous  manner."  An  entire  column  was 
devoted  to  Mr.  Riley's  reception  of  the  poem. 

The  author's  own  account  of  the  writing  of  the 
verses  is  contained  in  a  letter,  dated  November  22, 
1886,  to  C.  B.  Foote,  a  book  collector,  who  had 
come  into  possession  of  the  old  Ainsworth  dic 
tionary  in  which  the  poem  had  been  transcribed  in 
facsimile  of  Poe's  handwriting.  Both  the  letter 
and  the  dictionary  are  now  in  the  possession  of  Mr. 
Paul  Lemperly,  of  Cleveland,  Ohio. 

Regarding  the  authorship  of  the  poem,  "Leonainie,"  I  can 
claim  the  poem  only — the  autographic  copy  which  your 


432  NOTES 

letter  describes — its  original,  at  least— was  executed  (at 
my  instigation,  and  with  equally  boyish  unconsciousness 
of  guilt)  by  an  artist  friend  of  mine,  now  wearing  first 
honors  in  the  Art  Schools  of  Munich  [Samuel  Richards]. 
He  did  his  work  well,  and  was  thus  the  author  of  the 
best  part  of  the  poem.  He  worked  then  as  he  works  now ; 
— straight  from  the  heart.  He  had  only  a  line  or  two  of 
Poe-facsimile  to  "inspire"  from  but  some  way  the  fellow 
caught  the  spirit  of  the  whole  vocabulary  from  it,  fur 
nishing  a  result  that  many  notable  and  most  exacting 
critics  were  bewildered  by,  as  I  myself  saw  tested  many 
times. 

It  is  but  just  to  all  concerned,  for  the  better  understand 
ing  of  the  real  facts  of  the  case,  to  speak  further,  though 
with  you  now  I  will  be  as  brief  as  possible : — The  poem 
was  written  about  twelve  years  ago  in  the  town  of  An 
derson,  Ind.,  while  I  was  a  very  callow  writer  on  The 
Democrat,  of  that  place;  and,  being  rallied  to  desperation 
over  the  weekly  appearance  of  my  namby-pamby  verses, 
by  the  editor  of  a  rival  sheet,  I  devised  the  Foe-poem 
fraud  simply  to  prove,  if  possible,  that  like  critics  of 
verse  would  praise,  from  a  notable  source  what  they  did 
not  hesitate  to  condemn,  from  an  emanation  opposite.  By 
correspondence  (still  preserved)  the  friendly  editor  of 
a  paper  (The  Kokomo,  Ind.,  Dispatch — still  conducted  by 
same  Ed.)  assisted  me  in  foisting  the  hoax  on  the  public 
through  his  columns — this  for  reasons  obvious ;  while 
to  still  further  conceal  the  real  authorship  of  the  poem, 
as  soon  as  published  with  its  editorial  hurrah,  I  at 
tacked  its  claimed  worth  and  authenticity  in  my  paper. 
Then  every  one  who  knew  me,  knew,  of  course,  I  didn't 
write  a  rhyme  of  it.  And  so  it  went — and  went — and 
kept  on  going — till  at  last  the  necessary  expose.  Papers 
everywhere  lit  into  me — friends  read  all  this,  and  stood 
aside — went  round  the  other  way.  The  paper  upon  which 
I  gained  the  meager  living  that  was  mine  excused  me — and 
no  other  paper  wanted  such  a  man — and  wouldn't  even  let 
me  print  a  card  of  explanation — not  for  weeks,  while  I 
stood  outside  alone,  and  walked  around  the  Court  House 
square  at  night,  and  through  the  drizzle  and  the  rain 
peered  longingly  at  the  dim  light  in  the  office  where  I 
used  to  sleep,  with  a  heart  as  hard  and  dark  and  obdurate 
as  the  towel  in  the  composing-room.  All  of  which  is 
smiling  material  now,  but  then  it  was  pathos  from  a-way 
back! 


NOTES  433 

p.  196  A  TEST  OF  LOVE 

First  printed  in  The  Anderson  Democrat,  August 
3,  1877 ;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form. 

p.  198  FATHER  WILLIAM 

First  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Saturday  Her 
ald,  September  22,  1877,  dated  Greenfield,  Septem 
ber,  1877,  signed  "Harrison  Driley";  hitherto 
unpublished  in  book  form.  In  this  parody  Mr.  Riley 
wrote  the  questions  and  Captain  Lee  O.  Harris  the 
answers.  The  verses  suggest  the  days  when  the 
former  visited  the  latter  at  his  home  in  Lewisville, 
near  Greenfield,  and  discussed  literature  and  read 
with  him  until  far  into  the  night.  Lewis  Carroll 
was  a  favorite  author  on  these  evenings. 

p.  200  WHAT  THE  WIND  SAID 

First  printed  in  The  Kokomo  Dispatch  a  few  days 
prior  to  October  5,  1877 ;  published  in  HOME  FOLKS 
— 1900,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911. 

p.  207  MORTON 

First  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Journal,  No 
vember  2,  1877,  dated  Indianapolis,  November  I ; 
hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form.  Oliver  Perry 
Morton,  the  "War  Governor"  of  Indiana,  was  born 
at  Saulsbury,  Indiana,  August  4,  1823.  In  1867  he 
became  a  United  States  senator,  and  was  appointed 
minister  to  England  in  1870,  but  declined  the  office. 
He  died  in  Indianapolis,  November  I,  1877.  Mr. 
Riley  admired  him  exceedingly  and  was  moved  by 
his  speeches. 


434  NOTES 

p.  209      AN  AUTUMNAL  EXTRAVAGANZA 

Dated  Greenfield,  November  i,  1877,  first  printed 
in  The  Indianapolis  Saturday  Herald,  November  3, 
1877 ;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form. 

p.  211  THE  ROSE 

Dated  Greenfield,  November  13,  1877,  first  print 
ed  in  The  Newcastle  Mercury,  December  6,  1877, 
with  the  title,  My  Rose;  published  in  GREEN  FIELDS 
AND  RUNNING  BROOKS — 1892,  LOVE  LYRICS — 1899, 
RILEY  ROSES — 1909,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911, 
THE  ROSE — 1913. 

p.  213  THE  MERMAN 

First  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Saturday  Her 
ald,  November  17,  1877;  hitherto  unpublished  in 
book  form.  The  following  comment  appeared  with 
the  publication  of  the  poem : 

A  literary  club  is  now  wielding  above  the  ducked  head 
of  the  community.  Among  the  most  extinguished  mem 
bers  are  the  names  of  Alex.  Black  and  J.  W.  Riley.  At 
the  next  meeting  the  former  will  read  an  original  paper 
of  Floridian  Lagoons,  or  the  Wrecker's  Roost;  and  the 
latter  will  whet  his  voice  on  the  following  plagiarism  from 
Tennyson.  [Cf.  Tennyson's  The  Merman.] 

p.  215  THE  RAINY   MORNING 

Dated  Marion,  Indiana,  November  22,  1877,  first 
printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Journal,  November 
24,  1877;  published  in  MORNING — 1907,  SONGS  OF 
HOME — 1910,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911.  The 
following  stanza  originally  stood  in  place  of  the 
fourth : 


NOTES  435 

I  do  not  know  that  the  sermon 

Was  meant  for  me  alone, 
Tho'  it  seemed  to  me  God  spoke  it 

In  the  faintest  undertone. 
Yet  this  I  know :  when  the  spirit 

Is  draped  in  the  gloom  of  sin, 
That  only  the  hand  of  the  Master 

Can  let  the  sunshine  in. 

p.  216 

WE  ARE  NOT  ALWAYS  GLAD  WHEN  WE  SMILE 

Dated  December  7,  1877;  first  printed  in  The 
Indianapolis  Journal,  December  14,  1877;  pub 
lished  in  THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF  THE  NIGHT — 
1900,  SONGS  OF  HOME — 1910,  THE  LOCKERBIE 
BOOK — 1911.  The  poem  has  been  revised  through 
out  :  the  second  stanza  of  the  present  version  was 
the  first  in  the  original;  the  second  stanza  in  the 
original  read : 

We  are  not  always  glad  when  we  smile, 
For  the  world  is  so  heedless  and  gay 

That  our  doubts  and  our   fears,  and  our  griefs  and 

our  tears 

Are  lighter  when  hidden  away. 
And  the  touch  of  a  frivolous  hand 
May  oftener  wound  than  caress, 

And  kisses  that  drip  from  the  reveler's  lip, 
May  oftener  blister  than  bless. 


p.  218  A  SUMMER  SUNRISE 

Dated  Greenfield,  December  12,  1877,  first  print 
ed  in  The  Indianapolis  Journal,  December  21,  1877; 
hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form.  These  lines  ac 
companied  the  poem :  "After  Lee  O.  Harris.  As  a 
simple  tribute  to  my  early  teacher  and  my  truest 
friend,  this  humble  imitation  is  inscribed." 


436  NOTES 

p.  220  DAS  KRIST  KINDEL 

First  printed  with  the  title,  A  Dream  of  Christ 
mas  in  The  Indianapolis  Journal,  December  25, 
1877 ;  published  in  AFTERWHILES  — 1887,  OLD- 
FASHIONED  ROSES — 1888,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 
1911.  The  poem  has  been  revised  in  minor  details 
since  its  early  publication. 

p.  225  AN  OLD  YEAR'S  ADDRESS 

Dated  1878;  hitherto  unpublished.  This  bizarre 
and  extravagant  nonsense  verse  was  written 
for  Frank  S.  Hereth,  Samuel  B.  Moffit  and  Ed 
Yoe,  passing  acquaintances,  who  had  it  inscribed 
and  illustrated  on  cards  to  present  to  friends  on 
New-year's  day. 

p.  227  A  NEW  YEAR'S  PLAINT 

First  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Journal,  Jan 
uary  i,  1878;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form. 
The  quotation  at  the  beginning  of  the  poem  is  from 
In  Memoriam,  V,  9-12. 

p.  230  LUTHER  BENSON 

First  printed  in  The  Kokomo  Tribune,  January  5, 
1878;  hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form.  Luther 
Benson,  the  famous  temperance  orator,  was  very 
greatly  admired  by  Mr.  Riley  for  his  oratorical 
gifts  and  original  force  of  expression.  They  were 
lifelong  friends.  The  subtitle  of  these  verses,  After 
Reading  His  Autobiography,  refers  to  his  book,  Fif 
teen  Years  in  Hell. 

p.  232  DREAM 

Dated  February  15,  1878,  in  the  note-book  of  Mr. 
Riley's  sister,  Elva  Riley  Eitel;  published  in  THE 


NOTES  437 

FLYING    ISLANDS    OF    THE    NIGHT — 1891,    LOVE 
LYRICS — 1899,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911. 

p.  234      WHEN  EVENING  SHADOWS  FALL 

Enclosed  in  a  letter,  dated  Greenfield,  Febru 
ary  25,  1878,  to  Miss  Sarah  G.  Smith,  of  Kokomo, 
now  Mrs.  W.  D.  Pratt,  of  Indianapolis ;  hitherto 
unpublished.  Mr.  Riley  met  Miss  Smith  in  Feb 
ruary,  1878,  when  he  was  visiting  in  the  home  of 
Charles  H.  Philips,  editor  of  The  Kokomo  Tribune. 
After  his  initial  appearance  on  the  lecture  plat 
form  at  Kokomo,  February  14,  1878,  she  wrote  a 
very  complimentary  press  notice.  It  was  in  ap 
preciation  of  this  article  in  The  Kokomo  Tribune 
and  in  pleasant  memory  of  his  visit  to  the  Philips' 
home  that  he  wrote  When  Evening  Shadows  Fall. 

p.  236  YLLADMAR 

Dated  Greenfield  March  15,  1878,  first  printed 
in  The  Indianapolis  Journal,  March  16,  1878 ;  pub 
lished  in  His  PA'S  ROMANCE  (Homestead  Edition) 
— 1908,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911.  The  name 
was  coined  by  Mr.  Riley. 

p.  238  A  FANTASY 

Dated  April  20,  1878,  first  printed  in  the  prose 
sketch,  An  Adjustable  Lunatic,  in  The  Indianapolis 
Journal,  April  23,  1878;  published  in  SKETCHES 
IN  PROSE — 1891. 

p.  242  A  DREAM 

First  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Saturday  Her 
ald,  May  n,  1878;  hitherto  unpublished. 


438  NOTES 

p.  244  DREAMER,  SAY 

First  printed  with  the  title  Alkazar,  in  The  Indi 
anapolis  Saturday  Herald,  May  n,  1878;  published 
in  ARMAZINDY — 1894,  SONGS  OF  HOME — 1910,  THE 
LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911.  The  early  version  con 
tained  two  more  lines  at  the  end  of  each  stanza. 

Stanza  1 : 

Dreamer,  say,  will  you  dream  for  me 
Of  a  land  like  this,  and  a  foaming  sea? 

Stanza  2: 

Dreamer,  say,  will  you  dream  a  dream 
Of  a  tropic  land  of  gloom  and  gleam? 

Stanza  3: 

Dreamer,  dream  of  a  land  of  love 

When  hearts  grow  ripe  for  the  world  above. 

p.  246  BRYANT 

Dated  June  12,  1878,  first  printed  in  The  In 
dianapolis  Journal,  June  14,  1878;  hitherto  un 
published  in  book  form.  At  the  time  of  his  death, 
William  Cullen  Bryant  was  the  first  of  American 
poets.  Mr.  Riley  has  always  been  fond  of  Bryant's 
verse,  and  to-day  one  of  his  favorite  poems  is  The 
Planting  of  the  Apple  Tree. 

p.  247  BABYHOOD 

First  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Saturday  Her 
ald,  June  15,  1878 ;  published  in  PIPES  o'  PAN— 1888, 
RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD — 1890,  SONGS  o'  CHEER — 
1905,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911.  This  poem  has 
always  held  a  special  place  in  the  author's  affections 
and  appeared  on  his  business  stationery  in  the  early 
eighties. 


NOTES  439 

MAYMIE'S  STORY  OF  RED  RIDING  HOOD 

These  lines  were  the  next  to  appear  in  print, — 
printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Saturday  Herald,  June 
15,  1878.  The  poem  is  included  in  A  Child  World, 
in  a  later  volume. 

p.  249  LIBERTY 

Read  at  a  Fourth  of  July  celebration  at  New 
castle,  Indiana,  in  1878;  first  printed  in  The  New 
castle  Mercury,  July  6,  1878 ;  hitherto  unpublished 
in  book  form  except  the  section  referring  to  the  In 
dependence  Bell,  which  was  converted  into  The 
Voice  of  Peace,  and  published  in  MORNING — 1907, 
THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911. 

p.  259  TOM  VAN  ARDEN 

First  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Saturday  Her 
ald,  July  6,  1878;  published  in  GREEN  FIELDS  AND 
RUNNING  BROOKS — 1892,  LOVE  LYRICS — 1899,  THE 
LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911.  The  author  had  no  definite 
person  in  mind. 

p.  263  T.  C  PHILIPS 

Dated  Greenfield,  July  8,  1878;  first  printed  in 
The  Kokomo  Tribune,  July  20,  1878;  hitherto  un 
published  in  book  form.  Mr.  Riley  composed  this 
sonnet  four  days  after  the  death  of  his  venerable 
friend  and  mentor,  T.  C.  Philips,  an  editor  of  state 
wide  name  and  influence.  As  proprietor  of  The 
Kokomo  Tribune,  he  had  welcomed  Mr.  Riley's  con 
tributions  for  The  Home  Department  of  that  paper, 
and  on  February  14  of  the  same  year  in  which  he 
died,  had  introduced  him  to  his  first  Kokomo  au 
dience. 


440  NOTES 

p.  264  A  DREAM  UNFINISHED 

Dated  Greenfield,  Indiana,  July  30,  1878,  first 
printed  in  The  Hancock  Democrat,  August  i,  1878; 
hitherto  unpublished  in  book  form.  Miss  Nellie 
Millikan,  later  Mrs.  George  B.  Cooley,  was  one  of 
Mr.  Riley's  early  friends  and  among  the  very  first 
to  express  faith  in  the  ultimate  success  of  his 
poetry.  She  died  at  Belleville,  Illinois,  July  27, 
1878,  and  was  buried  at  Greenfield.  These  verses 
were  written  in  her  memory. 

p.  267          A  CHILD'S  HOME  LONG  AGO 

Prepared  for  an  Old  Settlers'  Meeting  at  Oak 
land,  near  Indianapolis,  August  3,  1878 ;  read  also  at 
the  first  meeting  of  the  Indiana  Pioneer  Society  at 
the  old  Indiana  State  Fair  Grounds,  October  2, 
1878;  first  printed  in  The  Indianapolis  Saturday 
Herald,  August  10,  1878;  with  the  title  of  The  Old 
Cabin;  the  section  from  1.  27,  p.  270,  through  the 
last  line,  p.  272,  published  under  the  title  of  A 
Child's  Home  Long  Ago,  in  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 
— 1890,  THE  LOCKERBIE  BOOK — 1911;  the  re 
mainder  of  the  poem  hitherto  unpublished  in  book 
form.  The  section  of  this  poem  used  in  RHYMES 
OF  CHILDHOOD  is  introduced  by  the  following  lines, 
now  omitted: 

Even  as  the  gas  flames  flicker  to  and  fro, 

The  Old  Man's  wavering  fancies  leap  and  glow, — 

"Each  man  rewarded  as  his  works  shall  be/'  was 
a  favorite  sentiment  of  Mr.  Riley's  father. 

"The  description  of  the  interior  of  a  pioneer  log 
cabin,"  Mr.  Riley  once  said  in  commenting  on  this 
poem,  "is  as  true  to  life  as  I  could  make  it.  I  was 
born  in  a  log  house,  weather-boarded,  and  remem 
ber  it  well,  as  also  numerous  other  log  houses.  I 


NOTES  441 

can  not  claim  to  be  a  pioneer,  only  that  I  knew  many 
in  my  youth,  and  from  actuality  I  can  testify  to  the 
nobility  of  the  type." 

p.  275      THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF  THE  NIGHT 

First  printed  in  the  Indianapolis  Saturday  Her 
ald,  August  24,  1878;  published  in  THE  FLYING 
ISLANDS  OF  THE  NIGHT — 1891,  THE  LOCKERBIE 
BOOK — 1911,  THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF  THE  NIGHT 
(Franklin  Booth  edition) — 1913.  The  Herald 
printed  this  poem  in  the  fourth  number  of  the  Re 
spectfully  Declined  Papers  of  the  Buzz  Club,  a 
series  of  six  prose  sketches  interspersed  with  poetry, 
which  Mr.  Riley  contributed  at  this  period.  The 
poem  was  revised  for  the  1891  edition  and  again  for 
a  later  edition  published  in  1898.  When  it  appeared 
in  book  form  in  1891,  the  introductory  poem  For 
the  Song's  Sake,  p.  277,  and  the  Songs  of  the  Seven 
Faces,  pp.  279-283,  were  first  included.  The  latter 
of  these  originally  appeared  in  The  Indianapolis 
Journal,  February  4,  1879,  under  the  title,  Of  the 
Whole  World  Mine.  It  was  greatly  altered  to 
meet  the  requirements  of  the  larger  poem.  The 
early  version  read : 

OF  THE  WHOLE  WORLD  MINE 

I  KNEW  you  long  and  long  before 
God  sprinkled  stars  upon  the  floor 
Of  Heaven,  and  swept  this  soul  of  mine 
So  far  beyond  the  reach  of  thine. 
Ere  day  was  born  I  saw  your  face 
Hid  in  some  starry  hiding-place, 
Where  our  old  moon  was  kneeling  while 
You  lit  its   features  with  your  smile. 
I  knew  you  while  the  earth  was  yet 
A  baby — ere  the  helpless  thing 
Could  cry,  or  crawl,  or  anything; 


442  NOTES 

Nor  ever  will  my  soul  forget 

How  drowsy  time,  low  murmuring 

A  lullaby  above  it,  kept 

A-nodding,  till  he  dozed,  and  slept, 
And  knew  it  not,  till  wakening, 
The  morning  stars  began  to  sing. 
I  knew  you  even  as  the  hands 

Of  angels  set  your  sculptured  form 

Upon  a  pedestal  of  storm, 
And  lowered  you  to  earth  with  strands 
Of  twisted  lightning.      And  I  heard 
Your  voice — ere  you  could  speak  a  word 

Of  any  but  the  angel  tongue — 
I  listened,  and  I  heard  you  say — 

"Though  Heaven  sows  our  lives  among 
The  worlds  a  million  miles  away 

Each  from  the  other,  they  will  lean 
Their  tendrils  nearer,  day  by  day; 

Till  all  the  lands  that  intervene 
Shall  dwindle  slowly — till  the  space 
Shall  see  them,  vine-like,  interlace 

Caressingly,  and  climb,  and  twine, 

Up  trellises  of  summer-shine ; 

And  bud  and  burst  in  bloom  divine." 
You  spoke  and  vanished ;  and  a  stream 

Of  some  strange  rapture  overran 
My  laughing  lips,  as  in  my  dream 

I  sang  as  only  angels  can. 

SONG 

I  follow  you  forever  on! 

Through  darkest  night  and  dimmest  dawn; 

Through  storm  and  calm,  through  shower  and 

shine, 
I  hear  your  soul  call  back  to  mine. 

I  follow  through  the  dusk — the  dew; 

Through  gleam  and  gloom  I  follow  you. 

I  follow,  follow,  follow  you. 

I  follow  ever  on  and  on, 
O'er  hill  and  hollow,  brake  and  lawn ; 
Through  rocky  pass,  and  deep  ravine 
Where  light  of  day  is  never  seen. 

I  waver  not — my  heart  is  true : 

Unfaltering  I  follow  you ; 

I  follow,  follow,  follow  you. 


NOTES  443 

I  follow  ever  on  and  on! 
The  cloak  of  night  around  me  drawn 
Though  wet  with  mist,  is  all  besprent 
With  stars  to  light  the  way  you  went. 

The  moon  smiles  brighter  on  me  through 

The  darkness  as  I  follow  you; 

I  follow,  follow,  follow  you. 

I  follow  ever  on  and  on! 
The  pilgrim  staff  I  lean  upon 
Is  wrought  of  love,  and  it  will  lend 
Me  strength  to  journey  to  the  end. 
Though  all  the  world  I  wander  through 
In  empty  quest, — I  follow  you — 
I  follow,  follow,  follow  you. 

I  follow  ever  on  and  on: 
I  know  the  ways  your  feet  have  gone, — 
The  grass  is  greener,  and  the  bloom 
Of  roses  richer  in  perfume. 

And  all  the  birds  I  listen  to 

Sing  sweeter  as  I  follow  you, 

I  follow,  follow,  follow  you. 

I  follow  ever  on  and  on: 
For  as  the  night  fades  into  dawn, 
So  shall  my  vigil  fade  away, 
And  I  will  kiss  your  lips,  and  say: 

Through  life  and  death,  and  Heaven,  too, 
My  eager  feet  will  follow  you — 
Will  follow,  follow,  follow  you 

In  Act  I,  the  following  did  not  appear  until  the 
1891  edition:  the  apparition  of  the  counter-self  of 
Crestillomeem  and  Jucklet,  showing  these  two  con 
spirators  as  they  might  have  been,  with  their  re 
marks  preceding  the  following,  p.  290  1.  2  to  p.  293 
1.  16 ;  the  description  of  Crestillomeem's  method  of 
disposing  of  the  princess  and  her  lover,  p.  294  1.  12 
to  p.  295  1.  18,  p.  295  11.  20-22,  and  p.  296  11.  10-13; 
Jucklet's  description  of  Spraivoll,  p.  298  11.  7-11,  14, 
15,  19,  p.  299  11.  2-6,  p.  301  11.  1-7;  and  the  last  six 
lines  of  Spraivoll's  song,  p.  300  11.  7-12. 


444  NOTES 

Crestillomeem's  conversation  with  Spraivoll,  in 
which  she  unfolds  her  plot  against  the  King,  p.  303 
1.  3  to  p.  304  1.  20  and  p.  305  1.  13  to  p.  306  1.  19,  was 
amplified  for  the  1891  edition,  when  Spraivoll's 
weird  crooning,  p.  304  1.  21  to  p.  305  1.  12,  and  the 
Queen's  remarks  on  Dwainie,  p.  307  11.  3-13,  were 
first  used. 

The  introductory  lines  to  the  song,  A  Lovely 
Husband,  p.  286  1.  18  to  p.  287  1.  2,  and  the  song  it 
self,  p.  287  11.  3-14,  p.  302  1.  15  to  p.  303  1.  2,  were 
not  included  until  the  final  edition. 

In  the  1891  edition  the  description  of  the  King's 
garden  at  the  beginning  of  Act  II,  p.  309,  was  ex 
panded  and  a  new  improvised  song  by  Amphine,  p. 
309  1.  I  to  p.  310  1.  4,  p.  310  11.  13-21,  p.  311  11.  9-22, 
introduced. 

The  next  song  by  Amphine,  sung  after  he  has 
discovered  Dwainie  near  him  in  the  garden,  p.  313  1. 
I  to  p.  314  1.  8,  also  appeared  as  a  part  of  this  poem 
for  the  first  time  in  the  1891  edition,  having  been 
printed  separately  under  the  title,  Song,  in  The  In 
dianapolis  Journal,  June  21,  1885.  In  this  original 
form,  before  it  became  a  part  of  The  Flying  Islands, 
"Lady"  stood  in  place  of  "Dwainie"  throughout  the 
poem.  The  earliest  version  is  given : — 

SONG 

Linger,  my  Lady!   Lady  lily-fair, 
Stay  yet  thy  step  upon  the  casement-stair — 
Poised  be  thy  slipper-tip  as  is  the  time 
Of  some  still  star. — Ah,  Lady! — lady  mine, 
Yet  linger — linger  there! 

Thy  face,  O  Lady,  lily-pure  and  fair, 
Gleams  i'  the  dusk  as  in  thy  dusky  hair 
The  snowy  blossom  glimmers,  or  the  shine 
Of  thy  swift  smile. — Ah,  Lady! — lady  mine! 
Yet  linger — linger  there! 


NOTES  445 

With  lifted  wrist  where  round  the  laughing  air 
Hath  blown  a  mist  of  lawn  and  claspt  it  there, 
Waft  finger-tipt  adieus  that  spray  the  wine 
Of  thy  waste  kisses  to'rd  me,  lady  mine! 
Yet  linger — linger  there! 

What  unloosed  splendor  is  there  may  compare 
With  thy  hand's  unfurled  glory  anywhere! 
What  glint  of  sun,  or  dew,  or  jewel  fine 
May  mate  thine  eyes  ? — Ah,  Lady — lady  mine, 
Yet  linger — linger  there ! 

My  soul  confronts  thee ;  on  thy  brow  and  hair 
It  lays  its  gentleness  like  palms  of  prayer; 
It  touches  sacredly  those  lips  of  thine 
And  swoons  across  thy  spirit,  lady  mine, 
The  while  thou  lingerest  there. 

Part  of  Amphine's  conversation  with  Dwainie,  p. 
315  11.  7-15,  was  added  to  the  1891  edition;  but  in 
stead  of  the  latter  part  of  Dwainie's  reply  and  Am 
phine's  answer,  p.  316  11.  7-20,  the  original  text  con 
tained  only  the  following : — 

When  love  lay  like  a  baby  in  my  arms 
And  life  was  like  a  tinkling  toy. 

In  the  1891  edition  appeared  for  the  first  time: 
Dwainie's  laudatory  description  of  Wunkland,  p. 
317  11.  10-14,  p.  31^11.  13-24,  p.  319  11.  9-14;  Am 
phine's  account  of  his  lost  sister,  p.  323  11.  13-16,  p. 

324  11.  9-11 ;  their  discussion  about  the  change  in  the 
King,   including  Dwainie's   "asides"   in  which   she 
reveals  to  the  reader  her  supernatural  powers,  p. 

325  11.  3-13,  p.  326  11.  7-1 1,  p.  326  1.  22  to  p.  327  1.  4. 
p.  328  11.  9-12,  p.  329  11.  6-9 ;  and  Jucklet's  grotesque 
remarks  after  arriving  in  the  garden,  p.  338  11.  5-10, 
p.  340  11.  6-20,  p.  341  11.  1-13 ;  though  p.  320  11.  12- 
26  and  p.  331  1.  5  to  p.  334  1.  7,  including  Jucklet's 


446  NOTES 

song,  Fold  Me  Away  in  Your  Arms,  0  Night,  were 
not  added  until  the  final  revision. 

July  5,  1879,  p.  331  1.  18  to  p.  332  1.  8,  p.  332  1.  13 
to  P-  333  1-  5  were  printed  separately  in  The  Indian 
apolis  Saturday  Herald,  as  follows : — 

GLIMPSE 

".     .     .     My  pen  fell— 

My  hands  struck  sharp  together,  as  hands  do 

Which  hold  at  nothing." 

O,  but  a  flash  of  some  sweet  light 
Has  smitten  the  eyes  of  my  soul  to-night ! 
Groping  here  in  the  garden-land, 
I  felt  my  fancy's  out-held  hand 
Touch  the  rim  of  a  realm  that  seems 
Like  an  isle  of  bloom  in  a  sea  of  dreams. 
I  stand  here  dazed  and  alone — alone 
My  heart  beats  on  in  an  undertone, 
And  I  hold  my  breath  as  I  hear  from  far 
Away  the  voice  of  a  dead  guitar, 

And  the  wraith  of  an  old  love  song, 
And  my  cheeks  are  as  red  as  the  roses  are 

Where  the  dews  of  night  belong. 
Low  to  myself  I  am  whispering, 

I  am  glad,  and  the  night  knows  why — 
I  am  glad  that  the  dream  came  by 
And  found  me  here  as  of  old  when  I 
Was  a  ruler  and  a  king. 

It  was  an  age  ago — an  age 

Turned  down  in  life  like  a  folded  page — 

See,  where  the  volume  falls  apart, 

And  the  faded  book-mark — 'tis  my  heart — 

Nor  mine  alone,  but  another  knit 

So  cunningly  in  the  love  of  it, 

That  you  must  look  with  a  shaking  head 

Nor  know  the  living  from  the  dead. 

Ah !  what  a  broad  and  a  sea-like  lawn 

Is  the  field  of  love  they  bloom  upon-: 

Hazy  reaches  of  velvet  grass 

Billowing  with  the  winds  that  pass, 


NOTES  447 

And  breaking  in  a  snow-white  foam 
Of  lily-crests  on  the  shores  of  home. 
Only  a  flash  of  some  sweet  light 
Smiting  the  eyes  of  my  soul  to-night, 
With  my  face  upturned  to  a  crescent  moon 
Atilt  like  the  bowl  of  a  silver  spoon, 
Skimming  the  sky  of  the  rich  white  cream 
Of  the  clouds  still  drifting  o'er  my  dream. 

The  act  originally  ended  with  the  last  line  of  p. 
347,  when  the  Nightmares  leap  on  the  comet  and 
disappear,  omitting  until  the  1891  edition  Jucklet's 
prayer  to  ^Eo,  which  was  first  printed  in  The  In 
dianapolis  Journal,  December  28,  1884,  with  the 
title,  What  Shall  We  Pray  For.  An  old  manuscript 
indicates  that  its  original  form  was  as  follows : — 

What  shall  we  pray  for? — 

Shall  we  pray 

For  health  to-day — 

We  who  so  yearn 

For  health's  return, 
And  laughing  hours  so  long  away? 

Or  shall  we  pray 

The  long  delay 
Of  Fortune  shall  have  end, 

And  wealth  be  ours,  as  when 

Each  silver  night  and  golden  day 
Of  youth  was  ours,  my  friend? 

What  shall  we  pray  for?    What?— 
That  the  sweet  clusters  of  forget-me-nots 
And  mignonette 
And  violet 

Be  out  of  Childhood  brought 
And  in  our  old  hearts  set 

A-blooming  now,  as  then? 
Or  shall  we  pray 

The  love  long  flown 
Return  again 

Unto  its  own, 
No  more  to  fly  away? 


448  NOTES 

What  shall  we  pray  for? 

Shall  it  be 

The   mother-faces   we 
Have  missed  for  years 

So  bitterly — 

Whose  eyelids  would 

Not  lift,  nor  could 
Be  melted  open  with  our  tears? 
How  we  would  greet  them  now — nay — nay  ! — 
For  what  then  shall  we  pray? 

For  what  then  shall  we  pray? 
Pray — pray  all  self  to  pass  away — 
Forgetful  of  all  needs 

Thine  own — 
Neglectful  of  all  creeds, 

Alone 
Stand  facing  Heaven,  and  say: 

To  Thee, 
O  Infinite,  I  pray 

Bless  thou  mine  Enemy! 

In  Act  III,  pp.  351-353,  including  the  stage  direc 
tions  in  regard  to  the  disappearance  of  Spraivoll's 
apparition,  p.  354,  were  omitted  from  the  first  ren 
dering  of  the  poem  but  included  in  the  second  in 
1891 ;  meanwhile  the  Wraith-Song  of  Spraivoll,  p. 
352  1.  3  to  p.  353  1.  24,  was  printed  in  the  Indian 
apolis  Journal,  March  24,  1883,  with  the  title,  Sweet 
Bells  Jangled. 

Krung's  speech,  in  the  original  version,  lacked  p. 
359  11.  7-20,  p.  360  1.  4  to  p.  361  1.  7,  p.  361  11.  16-20, 
and  the  last  two  lines  of  the  play. 

The  quotation  at  the  beginning  of  the  poem,  "A 
thynge  of  wychencreft,  an  idle  dreme,"  is  from 
Aella,  in  the  Rowley  Poems  of  Thomas  Chatterton, 
line  421.  The  original  version  contained  the  sub 
title,  A  Twintorette,  in  place  of  this  quotation. 

The  poem  called  forth  both  decided  criticism  and 


NOTES  449 

praise  from  the  first.  Mr.  Madison  Cawein,  to 
whom  the  poem  is  dedicated,  writes  about  it  as 
follows : 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  said  to  me  at  dinner,  on  an 
Easter  Sunday,  a  little  while  after  The  Flying  Islands 
appeared,  that  he  considered  that  book  worthy  of  a  place 
by  the  side  of  Shakespeare's  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 
and  that  if  everything  else  Mr.  Riley  ever  wrote  were 
forgotten,  this  play  would  establish  his  reputation  to 
posterity. 

Mr.  Riley,  in  replying  to  a  letter  from  Benj.  S. 
Parker,  September  13,  1878,  speaks  thus  of  it: 

That  "Thing-um-me-jig  rhyme"  is  the  supposed  produc 
tion  of  a  wild,  eccentric  character  of  mine  who  figures  in 
a  mythical  club  whose  only  ambition  is  to  please  itself — 
fully  conscious  that  the  public  is  too  engrossed  with  mat 
ters  of  importance  to  listen  to  its  jargon.  Therefore  I 
think  you  err  in  attacking  me,  ignoring,  as  you  do,  all 
allowance  for  the  proprieties  the  production  calls  into  use ; 
.  .  .  and  I  am  startled  and  chagrined  that  you,  a  careful 
reader  and  an  author  as  well,  should  find  such  serious  fault 
with  what  is  simply  nothing  more  than  my  good  nature, — 
for  The  Flying  Islands  is  but,  at  best,  a  smile. 


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